Unrehearsable
by Esther-Channah
Summary: Sequel to The Way Back. Bruce cut a deal with Commissioner Sawyer that leads him down a road he never foresaw.
1. Prologue: Setting Sail

Warnings/Spoilers: Some ableism and talk of rape in later chapters. I will be placing additional notes on the specific chapters where the instances occur.

* * *

_You took a step_

_The world came crashing down on you_

_And what you feared the most of all happened_

_Well, now you've come to._

_Welcome to the world_

_Welcome to the world at last..._

_...There's music like nothing you've heard..._

_If you just let it play_

_There are glasses to raise in the praise of surviving the day_

_For life is clearly something that I can't rehearse_

_It's dangerous and beautiful and free as verse..._

—_Lynn Ahrens, "Welcome to the World"_

A/N: This is installment number four of the "Locked-Verse." Other stories in this AU include, in chronological order, _Locked Inside the Facade, Lost to the Night, _and _The Way Back. _Canon-compliant until most of the way through _Countdown to Infinite Crisis_. Shortly after the _Sacrifice_ arc, events took a rather drastic turn in a different direction.

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta!

A/N: GED essay questions taken from the GEDpreparation wikispace accessed April 2, 2012. "Welcome to the World" written by Lynn Ahrens and Michael Flaherty. Recorded by Roger Rees on the _A Man of No Importance _original cast album (Warner Chappell, 2002). "Risk" written and recorded by Paul Brandt on his _Risk_ album (Brand-T, 2007).

Please note that the views expressed by the characters in this chapter do not necessarily reflect my own, but I believe that they are true to the way the characters have been canonically portrayed.

_I guess I could just play it safe  
and forget about love, hope and faith,  
with my eye on the shore line,  
keeping my boat tied and staying home,_

_ohhh but I'll never discover new land_  
_by keeping my feet on the sand_  
_No I'd rather set sail_  
_and get carried away by the storm._

—_Paul Brandt, "Risk"_

**Unrehearsable**

**Prologue—Setting Sail**

Dick had been gone for over an hour, but Bruce still hadn't moved from his seat in the Cave. He was replaying the events of the last few hours. It had been almost like old times: Tim captured, him and Dick working together to find Joker's newest hideout, rescue Tim and take down Joker and Harley. For a few hours, at least, it had almost seemed like the last three years hadn't happened.

Reality had come crashing back, as it always did. It wasn't like old times. After losing Alfred and Jason, after two years in Arkham, and now, after having spent nearly eight months as an out-patient, this wasn't old times.

It was ironic. He had spent most of his adult life creating a world where he could anticipate most situations and plan for most outcomes—only to have situations blow up in his face and find himself forced to deal with outcomes he'd never planned for. His secret identity was a thing of the past now, and at the hearing last July, the judge had been clear: if he resumed his vigilante activities while he was under the authority of the Gotham Mental Health Authority, he would be returned to Arkham forthwith. He'd hated it, but he'd been resigned to waiting out the year.

That is, until Joker had captured Tim, threatening to kill him if "the one true Batman" didn't come looking for him. Bruce let out a long breath. Commissioner Sawyer had once offered to deputize him, so that he'd be freer to act in a situation like that. He'd even gone so far as to discuss the specifics with her, but reconsidered when he'd found out that he would need to carry and use a gun. He had actually been calling her back to tell her that he couldn't accept those terms, when Joker had issued his ultimatum. And suddenly, the offer he'd seen as a net to snare him had become a lifeline. One night. One chance. He could do everything he needed to get Tim to safety—except wear the suit—but in return, he'd had to agree to go through Police Academy training. And Sawyer wasn't likely to extend the offer again if he reneged.

Well, he'd taken the lifeline. Now, he had to take the consequences that came with it. He looked at the gun on the table again. Tonight, he'd finally loaded it. It hadn't been easy. He hated guns with a passion. Recently, he'd come to accept that he feared them too, although he was working on that. At least, when the mission required it, he could work past the fear. Harley pulling a rifle on him earlier tonight hadn't fazed him. Certainly, he'd never frozen in costume. If anything, he'd relied on the Bat-persona, his rage, and his training to get him through that. He wouldn't have those resources at the academy.

Bruce frowned. Then he reached for the box of ammunition and deliberately placed one round into the magazine. He turned his attention inward. His heart was beating a bit faster, but it wasn't the loud thudding in his chest that had afflicted him the first time he'd tried the exercise. His hands felt cold, but they weren't sweating. He loaded the second round, noting with a pang that it was easier. He winced. Did he really want this to _get_ easier? He set his jaw. Easier, yes; unthinking, no. He never wanted to forget that a slight pressure on the trigger was all it would take to rob a family of a parent, a sibling, a child... No, a bit of reluctance wasn't a bad thing, so long as it didn't interfere with his ability to get the job done. _So long as nobody died trusting him because his reluctance cost him a few crucial seconds._ He closed his eyes, wondering whether Dick had gone through anything similar during _his_ academy days, knowing that he must have.

He took a deep breath and finished loading the magazine. Then he slid it into the Beretta, aimed the gun at the cave wall and held it for a moment, before he lowered his arm and released the magazine. He repeated the exercise another five times, enough to know that his earlier success hadn't been some sort of fluke; enough to know that he really _could_ do this.

Then he went upstairs to check on Tim.

* * *

Raven had done her work well. As he looked down on the sleeping young man, Bruce noted that Tim's breathing was deep and regular, with no trace of the wheeze he'd shown earlier. Bruce had no doubt that the bruises and broken bones were similarly healed. For an instant, in the dim light that filtered in through the venetian blinds, the youth looked again like the thirteen-year-old boy who had come into his life more than six years earlier.

Bruce smiled. He was free and Tim was alive. If the price he had to pay for those two achievements was having to dance to Sawyer's tune for awhile, it was worth it. He resolved not to discuss that cost with Tim, though—and he hoped the others would do the same.

He closed the door quietly and headed for the nursery.

Helena was sleeping peacefully, her expression angelic. Bruce was hard-pressed to connect the vision before him now with his memory of the screaming toddler he'd left behind earlier in the evening. Selina had evidently been right: she had settled down once she knew that he'd left—it was only while he was _leaving_, while there was still a chance that he'd change his mind, that she was prone to tantrums. He reached out to brush a stray dark curl away from her face, but thought better of it. He didn't want to wake her... much. No. No, Selina would kill him, and he hadn't just survived Joker and Harley to be murdered by one of his allies.

She was waiting in the hallway when he shut the door silently behind him. "Everything okay?"

Bruce nodded. "How long did it take her to settle down after I left?"

Selina shrugged. "About a minute to stop howling... A little longer to stop sniffling. Pretty typical for a twenty-two-month-old, I'd say."

"I'll take your word for it," Bruce said, shaking his head. "Until now, the children I've raised have been a bit older when they came into my life." His eyes flicked to the nursery door for a moment. "Are the terrible twos going to be as... difficult as billed?"

Selina laughed. "Bruce, my dear, I think you'll find that our daughter is a bit advanced for her age. She's already _in_ them. And so far, you're handling them just fine."

"Right," Bruce muttered, "If 'just fine' means second-guessing myself at every turn, trying to find a balance between accepting her... level of maturity for what it is and testing whether she's capable of more, getting it wrong more often than ri—"

Smiling, Selina pressed her fingers to his lips. "Bruce... um... that's called parenthood. Nobody gets it exactly right all the time, but between the two of us, I really think we're doing a decent job."

"But..."

"Trust me." Her green eyes sparkled as she took his arm and half-pulled, half-steered him away from the nursery door.

* * *

"Bruce sounded... good tonight," Barbara remarked, as Dick walked into her workroom. "Like old times kind of good."

Dick sat down next to her at the console. "Yeah, but it's not old times," he pointed out. "How long ago did you make that coffee?" He asked, gesturing toward the nearly-full carafe on the back counter.

Barbara looked at the time. "Maybe a half-hour ago," she said slowly. "Maybe more... I don't know. Try it, and if it's no good, you can put a fresh pot on; I might be up for a while." She sighed. "The JSA is fighting off an extra-terrestrial force in Reykjavik, of all places. Don't those clowns know that everybody who's anybody invades New York or Metropolis?"

Dick shrugged. "Maybe they're trying to be trendsetters," he said, getting up again. He poured a cup of coffee, took a tentative sip, shrugged, and walked back to the console with it. "Bruce is going to have a time of it, you know."

Barbara frowned. "I saw the deputization order; it looked fine to me. You don't mean to say he forged it?"

Dick blinked. "You really don't know...?" He shook his head. "No, you wouldn't; it's not like it's been broadcast all over the internet. No, the order's legit, but..." He let out a long breath. "You know how Sawyer's been trying for months to get Bruce onboard?"

"Yeah..."

As Dick continued to explain, Barbara's eyes widened. "He's got to go through the _academy_ training? _All_ of it?"

"If he passes the tests, he doesn't have to take the courses," Dick said, "but yeah."

"So that whole 'I'm-afraid-of-guns' confession yesterday..." Barbara said, shaking her head. "He's going to have to qualify with a firearm, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Hooboy."

"On the plus side," Dick said, "he was able to load it tonight. That's more than he could do yesterday."

"Yeah, but is it going to be enough?"

"I don't know," Dick said heavily. "I... I just don't know."

Barbara regarded him solemnly for a moment. Then her lips curved in a half-smile, as she leaned over and patted his hand. "Hey," she said brightly, "this could end up being something positive for him. And if not... it's just until the hearing, right? That's less than five months away."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, "_if_ he can pass the psych evaluation."

"Right." Barbara thought for a moment. "Do you remember the kinds of questions they asked _you_?"

Dick closed his eyes. "Some of them, but Babs, that's going back almost five years." He made a face. "It felt like they grilled me for hours—about the only thing missing was the bright lights."

"Did the BPD use a lie detector? I know we do here."

Dick nodded. "That's another thing; Bruce taught me how to fool one, but with everything else he's been through recently, I don't know if his bio-control is up to that."

Barbara lifted her eyebrows. "Who says it has to be?"

"What?"

"Seriously, Dick. What happens if he just tells them the truth?"

Dick gave her a horrified expression. "But they'll..."

"What? Find out he's Batman? Was Batman. Is Batman... I... You know what I mean. It's _not_ some deep dark secret anymore, Dick. It's the reason Maggie wants him in the first place!"

Slowly, Dick smiled. "We're still going to have to coach him, you know. And probably be prepared to get interviewed ourselves."

Barbara shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "It's not like I didn't go through it with you, you know." She grinned. "We'll call Daddy in the afternoon. I bet between the three of us, we can put together a pretty good picture of what Bruce is going to be up against."

* * *

It never mattered what time he went to bed. When the sun came up, so did Jim Gordon. Usually, he could still go back to sleep for a bit—when you'd served years, first as a cop and then later as commissioner of police, you learned to take naps when you could and be awake when you had to be. Over the last few weeks, however, something had changed.

He walked over to the computer and nudged the mouse to deactivate the screensaver. He looked at the window open on the screen and smiled.

_I wasn't sure if you'd be on this early_, he typed.

_The old rooster crowed nearly an hour ago_, the reply came back a moment later. _Chores don't do themselves._

Jim smiled. _I guess you have your son to thank for returning that rooster. Not to mention the rest of the coop. For a while there, I didn't think Bruce would ever get the feathers out of the machinery._

There was a pause, while the image of a writing quill appeared in the Skrype window.

_Actually, _a blushing emoticon appeared in the text box, _the rooster is an antique alarm clock on my night table. My day starts before his does. But I'm used to that. How's your daughter these days, Jim?_

Gordon smiled. _Thrilled that I finally let her get this program onto my machine. _He hesitated. Tone didn't always come across well in the written word. _She thinks you're a good influence on me. Well, that or she's hoping for more of those sunflower cookies..._

There was a pause. Then the quill began to write again. _As it happens, I was planning to do some baking today. Suppose I send a batch your way and you can share them out?_

Jim shook his head smiling. _Martha, I hope you know I wasn't hinting at anything. I wouldn't want you to go to all that trouble._

This time, Martha Kent's response wasn't long in coming. _Oh, poppycock. The recipe will give me more than I could possibly eat on my own. I'm glad to send them off to folks who will enjoy them._

Jim's smile widened as he replied. _Well, if you're sure. _He hesitated. Her quill was moving again as he added, _I can't help wishing you could bring them in person._

The quill stopped. Then it started again. _Planting season, I'm afraid. I have good help, but I still like to keep an eye on things. It would be nice, though, if you could come out here some time. How long until Bruce's situation gets sorted out?_

Jim sighed. _Some time in July, as I understand it. _

_Oh. Well, five months isn't really that long._

Jim chuckled. He could almost hear her voice saying the words. _It won't be, when we look back on it. Right now, though..._

_Yes. Well, I suppose I'd best check the hens. You have yourself a good day, Jim. Talk tomorrow?_

He smiled. _You too, Martha. Later._

He got up from the computer, musing that if things continued this way, between the two of them, Barbara Gordon and Martha Kent might just manage to drag him into the twenty-first century.

* * *

Cass was facing her worst opponent ever. Give her Joker. Give her Lady Shiva. Give her David Cain, even. Instead, she sat staring at a blank Word document. She looked at the list of essay topics on the sheet of paper next to the mouse pad.

**What are the characteristics of a true friend?**

**Do you think boys or girls have it tougher in the world?**

**What kind of animal makes the best pet?**

Cass rolled her eyes. These questions were... not exactly stupid, but not _smart_ either. She read on. Then she blinked. That couldn't be... she must have misread. No, she wasn't wrong. The next question really was, '**Should the death penalty be mandatory for people who kill other people?**'

Her mouth went dry. She couldn't answer that! She didn't have to, though, she realized a moment later. There was going to be a choice of topics for the essay section. She didn't have to answer this one—not even if it was on the real test.

She looked at the Word document.

_The characteristics of a true friend are_, she began. She hesitated. _Loyalty_, she typed after a pause. She closed her eyes. _Also they should be kind. They should have, _she read it over. This was... boring.

She sighed.

_When a person kills_, she typed slowly, _we say he or she is a murderer. When a court kills, we say they do justice. But a court is still only people and people can make mistakes. _

_Sometimes, a person can kill by mistake. It is an accident. They do not mean it. But the other person is still dead. The person who killed by mistake should be punished. But killing them does not bring back the person they killed._

Her hands were shaking, she realized. But the thoughts wouldn't stop coming.

_If we say that a person who kills, even by accident, must get the death penalty, what do we do if the people in the court are wrong? If they make a mistake and the wrong person is killed, should we kill the judge or the_... she hesitated, trying to remember the right word... _jury who had them killed?_

_On television, when there is a trial, I hear people say that the defendant should get the death penalty. They say he or she should pay. They even say that he or she should die. But they never say kill. They never say that we should kill the defendant. I think because even if a person deserves to die, nobody really wants to be a murderer. Because becoming a murderer kills a part of you too._

_If the court gives the death penalty, it makes it easier. Because the judge does not hold the weapon that kills. The person who gives the death penalty is often not in the room with the person getting it. _She knew as much from the movies. _Because of this distance it is easy to forget that we are taking a life. A life has value. The life of the person who died has value. But the life of the person who killed also does. Maybe some people do deserve to die. I don't know. But I do know that nobody deserves to become a killer. Our lives have too much value for that._

Cass let out a long breath and hit the 'print' button. Tomorrow, she would show this to Doctor Arkham. She hesitated, then reread what she had written. She didn't _think_ she'd given away anything that would reveal her as Batgirl, but maybe she should show it to Barbara first. Just in case.

* * *

"You seem somewhat perturbed, Doctor Cinar," Commissioner Sawyer remarked.

The police psychiatrist's frown had deepened as their conversation had progressed. "I don't understand what you're trying to pull," he said flatly. "You know Wayne's history. He's aggressive. Violent, even. More worrying, he's spent two years in Arkham. And you want me to certify him fit for duty so we can stick a gun in his hand and a badge on his shirt?"

"Anger can be managed," Sawyer pointed out. "Aggression channeled. And he _was_ in Arkham for two years, yes. He's out now. Frankly, we can use his expertise."

"Then bring him in as a consultant. Let him teach advanced classes. But fieldwork?"

"Are you refusing to administer the evaluation, Doctor?"

Cinar shook his head. "No, Commissioner," he said formally. "You want him tested, I'll test him. But I can tell you right now that I'm not going to rubber-stamp my approval, just because you think he has what it takes. He's going to have to convince _me_, first. And let me assure you, Sawyer, that's going to be no easy matter."


	2. Chapter 1: On Board

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta! Special thanks to PJ and associates for assistance with police vetting policies and procedures.

"Life Goes On" written by Leann Rimes, Desmond Child, and Andreas Carlsson. Performed by Leann Rimes on her _Twisted Angel_ album (Curb, 2002).

The Sissy Porter kidnapping and its aftermath occurred in _Batman: Venom (Legends of the Dark Knight Nos. 16-20_), by Dennis O'Neil, Russell Braun, and Trevor Von Eeden (1991).

_It's a fact, once you get on board  
Say good-bye cause you can't go back  
Oh it's a fight, and I really want to get it right  
Where I'm at, is my life before me  
And this feelin' that I can't go back_

—_Leann Rimes, Desmond Child, Andreas Carlsson, "Life Goes On"_

**Chapter 1—On Board**

Jim Gordon, seasoned police officer and former Gotham City police commissioner, looked from his daughter to Dick, and then back to his daughter once more. "No."

Barbara blinked. "Dad?"

"Out of the question," he confirmed. "No."

"It's just an interview!"

"I know what it is!" Jim shot back. "I used to work background investigations in Chicago. And frankly, I have no intention of being on the receiving end of one." He gave Dick a meaningful look. "I was always glad that at the time that you applied to the B.P.D., you and I didn't have what you would call a working relationship—at least not a known one, so they never thought to call me on your behalf. I went through _one_ of those interviews when I first joined the force, and I never plan to again." He looked away. "Sorry, Dick, but being submitted to cruel and unusual punishment is _your_ bailiwick, not mine!"

Dick and Barbara exchanged glances. "Was yours that bad?" he asked her.

Barbara shook her head. "No, but I think they were easier on me for a few reasons. That officer who interviewed me... Charry? Charro? Chiarello—_that_ was the name—he was Gotham when he started."

"Maury Chiarello?" Gordon perked up at that. "Small world. Yeah, he worked property crimes. Sergeant, I think. Joined the FBI around the time I made captain," he chuckled. "So he ended up in Bludhaven after that, huh? I'm surprised he remembered me."

"Well, he did," Barbara replied. "The first thing he asked me was whether you and I were related, and from that point on, it was smooth sailing. Between that and," she sighed, "much as I hate it, I think they took one look at the chair and decided to be gentle with me."

Gordon frowned. "You went all the way to Bludhaven? I would have thought that given your circumstances... I mean..." His gaze shifted involuntarily away from her face, toward the wheelchair.

"It was an option," Barbara nodded coolly. "But I wasn't looking for special treatment. Besides," she smiled at Dick, "it wasn't like that was the _only_ thing I did in Bludhaven that day."

"Ah, I see." Gordon's lips twitched. "Well," he sighed, "I guess whatever they put us through will be only a fraction of what they do to Bruce. Does he know what he's letting himself in for?"

Dick frowned. "He thinks so. He knows he has to pass the psych evaluation. As far as what that's going to entail..." he shook his head. "I tried to warn him. I think he's been working on the whole gun issue like it's the only thing to worry about. Come to think of it," he winced, "I don't think Bruce showed up for _my_ background check. Alfred did, of course."

At Jim's incredulous look, Dick only shrugged. "He didn't want me to be a cop. He didn't sabotage me, but he didn't want to make it easier, either. And yes, they asked me if I had any idea why he hadn't accepted their invitation."

"You're lucky they took you," Jim said. "Sometimes, the investigators can get a bit twitchy about things like that."

Dick shrugged again. "Bruce's history isn't that hard to research. I explained to them that, after what happened to his parents, he didn't want me facing down armed criminals. It was more or less the truth."

"Even so..." Jim started. "Ah well," he let the matter drop, "by the time they start talking to family, it's pretty much a formality. They like to start with people on the periphery and work their way in." He took off his glasses and fiddled with the earpiece. "How many people connected you to Bruce once you got into the academy?"

Dick blinked. "No clue. I mean, I didn't flaunt the relationship, but I didn't bother hiding it either. Bruce taking me in is pretty much common knowledge in Gotham. I knew it was going to come up in a background check, so I never saw the point of hiding it."

Jim frowned. "Did anyone make an issue over it?"

"After the interview process?" Dick shook his head. "Not until Bruce got framed for murder, and I sort of left myself wide open for that when I arranged to drive the prisoner shuttle from the 'Haven to Gotham, just so I could talk to him."

"You were more fortunate than you realize," Jim said darkly. "I don't know if you noticed, but there aren't too many billionaires' kids signing up to become LEOs. Now," his eyebrows knit together, "while hazing is officially off-limits," he took a soft cloth out of his breast pocket and began cleaning the lenses, "there's nothing in the books about some not-so-good-natured ribbing. He's rich, he's high-profile, and he's a former vigilante. Not to mention that Sawyer's giving him the kid-gloves treatment. The rest of them aren't exactly going to roll out the red carpet and slap him on the back."

Dick blinked. "You don't think Bruce can take it?"

"Day in, day out? When he's only doing this because Sawyer twisted his arm when he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and not out of genuine conviction? Look, maybe I was just running my mouth off a minute ago, because the truth of the matter is that the three of us? We're going to have it dead easy in comparison. Two former police officers and one cop's daughter living with an ex-cop? _We'll_ get the red carpet treatment. But Bruce..."

"Yeah," Dick said seriously, "but you're forgetting that he's been through this before—back when he first started training. He told me about it. The masters he went to study with told him he was too old to learn; that as an American, he was too soft. They didn't know who he was; he was using fake names, but they thought they had him pegged. He proved them wrong then. He can do it now." Dick leaned forward. "Especially if he's got us for support. Does he?"

Jim put his glasses back on. Then he got up and walked slowly to the coffee maker. He poured himself a mug from the carafe. "Got anything I can add to this? Sugar? Cream? Whiskey?"

Barbara's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but all she said was, "In the left-side drawer. In the right-side drawer. Downstairs, in the liquor cabinet between the Bailey's and the Frangelico. Does that mean you're in?"

Jim was silent.

"Daddy?"

The former commissioner chuckled. "Well, I guess if Bruce is prepared to go under the microscope, I can do my part. But he'd damned well better go through with this."

* * *

Dr. Alex Morgenstern was quiet for what felt like a long time. Finally, he said, "Do you think you're up for this?"

For once, Bruce didn't need to debate his reply. It occurred to him that if Alex were to step in, it might be a way out of the agreement he'd made with Sawyer that could still leave that door open in the future. After all, if he tried to follow this course of action against the recommendations of his court-ordered psychiatrist, Sawyer could hardly accuse him of reneging. And five months from now, after the hearing...

...Five months from now, she would still know that he was Batman, and she would still have the same concerns she'd voiced earlier about looking the other way while a 'loose cannon' was operating in Gotham.

Bruce closed his eyes. This wasn't going to blow over. Given the current situation, if he wanted any semblance of his old life back, he was going to have to play Sawyer's game. The worst of it was that he understood her perspective, and she wasn't wrong.

"I don't know," he said heavily. "The other night, my former partner's life was at stake. Commissioner Sawyer offered me a way to save him and I took it. If she hadn't, I still would have gone after him and dealt with the consequences later."

"And now you're still dealing with the consequences. They're just nothing that you likely could have predicted seven months ago, when the terms of your probation were spelled out for you."

Bruce nodded.

"Do you think that Commissioner Sawyer was wrong to put you in this position?"

Bruce considered the question, even as he studied the earth-toned geometric pattern of the office carpet. He focused on a tan diamond bordered in rust. "I think she was trying to give me an option to do what I needed to do, without facing incarceration later. That's part of it—maybe as much as half of it. However, I also can't deny that she's been trying to enlist me to teach my techniques to her people. She's approached me a few times in the past. And looking ahead, assuming that I go back to doing what I've always done best—only this time, with full legal sanction—Sawyer needs something to justify her trust in my competence after a long absence." It was an effort, but he kept his tone even. "Sometimes, plans go awry. If something were to go wrong as a result of my actions, she'd be forced to answer questions about why the GCPD tolerated my activities. As I understand it—and correct me if I'm wrong—at the hearing I'll be facing next July, the issue before the judge will be whether I'm mentally fit to be part of society without supervision."

"That's right," Alex prompted.

Bruce looked up for a moment, before returning his gaze to the diamond. "For me to return to my night-time activities, a higher standard will be necessary. Under those circumstances, the GCPD psych evaluation is likely to carry more weight with skeptics. And..."

"And?"

Bruce sighed. "It might help to allay my own concerns as well. The rules have changed since the last time I wore the suit. My circumstances... my life... has changed. I need to know that I can adjust."

"And if you can't?"

Bruce sighed again. "Then I need to know that, too. So I can let go of the fantasy."

Alex scribbled something into his notebook. Bruce waited, his eyes closed as he employed a basic relaxation technique. He was startled when Alex called his name, realizing that the psychiatrist had done so at least once before. "Sorry. I was just..."

"I know." Alex steepled his fingers, tips facing out. "All right. It sounds to me like your insights are spot-on—not that you need me to confirm it. Sawyer found a point where her wants and your needs intersected, and she's pressing that to her full advantage. That being said," his expression lightened, "If you'll recall last year, my recommendation to the judge was for no more than six months of mandatory supervision. He overrode that, as was his right. However, while we've both had to accept that decision, I'd like you to know that, in my personal view, my initial recommendation has borne out. You have issues that you need to work on, and I can help you with that—as can other qualified professionals. At this point, though, I don't believe that your mental health would _necessarily_ preclude your following through with the agreement you struck with Commissioner Sawyer. I think that there are probably some specific issues that might be helpful to discuss regarding your past activities—issues that could come up again, now that you're looking to do some fieldwork."

Bruce's head lifted slightly.

Alex's smile turned serious. "Under the circumstances, I think it might be helpful to step up our sessions," he said, "at least in the short-term. New beginnings are often stressful, and you may find that our current meetings won't be enough." Something must have shown in Bruce's expression, because Alex continued in a softer tone. "It's up to you," he said. "This isn't mandatory, and although it might feel like a setback, it isn't. What you're proposing to do _might_ be the best thing that could happen right now. It might also be a bit premature, but you won't know unless you try."

Bruce nodded slowly.

"Fine," Alex said simply. "We'll try two sessions per week for the next month." He consulted his data planner. "I have a slot free every Thursday at three o'clock . Let's tentatively schedule a second hour there. If there are any conflicts, let me know and we'll work around them. And if you find that you're managing all right, we can review after the month is up."

"Fine," Bruce replied as surprise and relief intermingled with an unexpected sense of dread. "That will be... acceptable."

Alex started making out an appointment card. "I'd also like you to keep a journal for the next week," he said. "You don't need to show it to me or discuss it in our sessions, although you're certainly welcome to do either. Or both. What I'd like you to do—not for me; for yourself—is jot down every time that you feel that you are not in control of a situation. I want you to specify what the situation is, the emotional reaction it triggers in you, and how the situation resolves. It can be something as mundane as 'stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Aparo. Angry. Sat and stewed for forty-five minutes before it finally started moving again. Continued to my destination.' He smiled. "Your control issues are going to come up. I think they would, even had you made a free decision to follow this path. The fact that there's an element of coercion in play isn't going to make it easier. I think we need to plan ahead for any difficulties that might arise on that front."

Bruce nodded. He could well appreciate a desire to anticipate undesirable occurrences, even if Alex probably was worrying needlessly. "Understood," he acknowledged with a faint smile.

* * *

Sharon Ryerson padded down the darkened hallway, ignoring the faint illumination coming from under the door of Joel's room. Her son was doubtless playing another video game. She should probably tell him to get to sleep, but he never listened anyway.

She walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, knowing that it was time to pay the bills, but unwilling to reach for the ever-mounting stack. She had to make the mortgage payment by Friday, she thought as she chewed on her lower lip. That, electricity, phone... then groceries. After that, maybe there'd be something left over for the credit cards. Funny how little money came in from working two jobs plus some sporadic weekend babysitting. It had been so different when Paul had been alive...

Sharon scowled, remembering how Joel had suggested filing a civil suit against Wayne. She'd wondered where a fourteen-year-old boy would have heard of such a thing, but then Joel always had been bright. It hadn't changed her answer to him. She wanted no blood money from Wayne or from his company. Her husband was dead thanks to Wayne's grandstanding, and she wasn't about to allow him to mitigate his guilt in any way, shape or form, no matter how badly she needed the money. She'd been happy enough when she'd known that he was safely under lock and key in Arkham, but barely two years later, he was out again while her husband and twenty-seven other good people were still dead and buried.

She hid her face in her hands. She didn't want to confront Wayne. She didn't want to see him again. Not that she wanted him to go to that gala and act like he hadn't a care in the world, either! She groaned. It was so unfair. She'd always wanted to go to one of those high society charity affairs, just once. Now she had her chance, but she'd have to see Wayne there as well. If only there was some way that she could have her one night to play "Cinderella at the ball" without having to encounter Captain Hook! She winced. She really needed to get more sleep, if that was the best imagery she could concoct, but as the date of the charity gala drew closer, her nerves were getting worse, making sleep an increasingly-sporadic event. Surely, there was some way to keep Wayne from coming within a few thousand feet of her. Her eyes widened as an idea began to take form.

_Maybe there was..._

* * *

"I'd say that this is going to hurt me more than it does you," Jim rumbled, "but I think it's going to be a tossup. The interview lasts about two and a half hours on average. It's going to feel like it's a lot longer."

"I'm ready."

Jim shook his head. "That's what they all think," he said with a weary smile. "Okay. First, before we get started, there are a few things I want you to understand. Don't worry." He picked up a clipboard with a self-deprecating smile. "I wrote it all down in advance to make sure I don't leave anything out."

Bruce nodded impatiently.

Jim's eyes took on an amused glint, even as his smile faded. "First," he began, "a lot of what I'm going to ask will sound like a cross-examination. That's basically what it is. My advice to you is to assume that the GCPD investigation team has already done their homework—because, if they're worth their salt, they have. In other words, when they ask you if you've ever engaged in illegal activity, yes, they know the answer to that one, and no, they won't be satisfied if you just 'fess up to tax evasion!"

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "It sounds as though this is going to be an exercise in futility, then," he said.

Jim's lips twitched. "Maybe... but that's as good as saying that Sawyer's got nothing better to do than waste your time and twist your arm."

"Unless she wants to demonstrate to me unequivocally why she _can't_ grant me deputy status."

Jim shook his head. "From everything I've seen of her, I have a hard time believing that she'd pull something quite like that. Of course, you don't have to take _my_ word for it. Seems to me that one of your friends had a nodding acquaintance with her back in her Metropolis days. You might want to sound him out."

Bruce grunted noncommittally. "You were trying to tell me that confessing to criminal behavior was a good thing?" he prompted.

"_Honesty_ is a good thing. Dick told me you know how to fool a lie detector test. I'd advise you not to try. They're trying to figure out if you're officer material." His lips twitched. "The ideal kind—not the corrupt type we've both tried to get off the force with varying degrees of success. Having a criminal past—and let's not mince words about it: on paper, that's you—is bad. Lying about it is worse. Demonstrating that you can lie so effectively that if the evidence to the contrary wasn't in front of them, they'd have no way of knowing the truth? How eager would _you_ be to trust your life to someone like that, hmm?"

Bruce nodded reluctantly. He gestured to Jim to continue.

"Okay. I mentioned that this was going to be like a cross-examination. There are a couple of differences. You want the good news or the bad news?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Both."

Jim chuckled at that. "Fine; let's cover the downside first. You don't get to object to any questions. Nothing is off-limits. Nothing is sacred. Well, I don't think they're going to ask the color of your underwear, but I'd make a mental note of it anyway. That's the bad news. The good news is that you aren't restricted to answering 'yes' or 'no'. You get to explain yourself. The equivalent of 'Yes, I was speeding, but I was taking a critically ill person to the hospital'." His eyes narrowed. "Or in your case, I suppose, 'Yes I have looked at child pornography. I came across a number of photographs when I was going through the filing cabinet of John Q. Sleazebucket, looking for something to link him to the human trafficking ring."

Bruce's lips twitched as he nodded once more.

"They're going to ask about that kind of thing. Absolutely, one hundred per cent. They'll ask about drugs, too." He smiled. "One candidate a few years back admitted to frequent marijuana use. He got accepted—like I'm saying, honesty counts for a lot. They never let him guard the evidence room, mind you, but that's neither here nor there." The smile faded again. "Look, I really hate to bring this up now. I mean, it was so long ago, and I know you're not using anything of the kind now..."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

Jim sighed. "Bruce... I... There was a short time back in the early days when you suddenly seemed a bit..." he hesitated, "different. Less focused. More aggressive. Thuggish, even. I wasn't the only person who noticed, either."

All the color drained from Bruce's face. "Jim—"

"Let me finish. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some strong suspicions, or that I wasn't mentally going through a checklist of symptoms. Before I made up my mind what to do about my concerns, though, you saved my life," he smiled. "Thanks for that, by the way. It wasn't the first time or the last, but I don't think I ever mentioned it until now."

Bruce's eyes flicked up for an instant before lowering once more.

Jim pursed his lips and took a breath. "After that," he continued, "you disappeared for a few months. When you came back, you were in better shape. I figured you'd probably gotten whatever help you needed, and so I left matters alone."

Bruce hunched forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. "I remember," he whispered. "You..." a soft breath, partway between a sigh and a groan escaped him. "You would have been correct, had you gone with your instincts." A flush rose to his cheeks as he continued haltingly. "It was not... a good time for me. Not that it's any sort of excuse." He closed his eyes. "The experiment was never repeated."

Jim nodded. "And, it was over and done with well over fifteen years ago. When the subject comes up for you—and I did say 'when,' not 'if'—I would come clean. Because if they ask me outright whether I ever had reason to believe you to be driving drunk or drugged, I'm going to answer honestly. I'm going to give them every detail I can think of that might mitigate the circumstances. I'm going to tell them that it was a brief interlude that lasted no more than six months, and that it was over years ago. But once they start asking me questions, I'm not going to start second-guessing whether you followed my advice on whether to come clean; I'm going to assume you were smart enough to take it." He laid a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Even if you tell me right now that you're planning to falsify certain details, I'm still going to hope that you wise up at the last minute."

Bruce slumped further in his chair.

"You told me Sawyer said straight out that she doesn't want a loose cannon operating in this city. Rightly or wrongly, the investigator is going to judge your moral fiber—at least partly—by that of your friends. And having friends who are comfortable lying for you isn't going to look good." He waited for the words to sink in. "I'm sorry."

Bruce nodded slowly. A moment later, he sat up straighter and opened his eyes. "If that's the case," he said, still whispering, "then you should hear the whole story from me, first. I... it'll probably make it easier for me to discuss later."

"I'm listening," Jim said.

Bruce drew a deep breath. "Do you remember the Sissy Porter kidnapping?"

* * *

It was a relatively quiet patrol that night, which suited Dick fine. He and Selina were in fair form, easily apprehending a number of small-time crooks and vandals. There was a break-and-enter in the East End. Dick left Selina to take care of that while he helped the Coast Guard nab a few salmon smugglers. She tended to take burglary on her home turf rather personally.

It was maybe an hour later that they met on a rooftop overlooking Robinson Park.

"He's having a rough time," Selina said without preamble.

Dick nodded, unsurprised. "Gordon said that if we wanted him to help prepare Bruce for the evaluation, he wasn't going to sugarcoat things. The whole procedure is a nightmare."

"Guess I can't fault the GCPD for not wanting to certify trigger-happy cops," Selina agreed. "Still... it was hard enough for him to open to _us_ about things that were a lot less personal."

"Don't I know it. Just letting his guard down around Morgenstern was a major step," Dick sighed. "Is he having second thoughts?"

"He's had them," Selina replied. "I think we're on to fifth or sixth. He's still ready to do it, but," she sighed, "I almost think he'd rather go a few rounds with the KGBeast."

Dick's lips twitched. "Well, sure. That would be over a lot faster, one way or the other." His smile took on a slightly more serious tone. "Look, in a perfect world, he aces the tests, gets deputized, everyone cheers and he goes on to a perfect record on the force, loved and admired by all. This isn't a perfect world. If he doesn't pass the psych evaluation, or the examiner doesn't like something in the background check—"

"What's not to like?" Selina asked, absolutely deadpan.

Dick didn't laugh. "Look, just help me help him see that there are a few other options."

"Don't suggest operating outside of Gotham," Selina said, all trace of light-heartedness gone. "He loves this city too much. You weren't here right after the Cataclysm—"

"Actually—"

"No, you were in Bludhaven. You came in as soon as you could, but he and I were right... here in the thick of things, when the quake actually happened. He... it tore him apart, almost as much as it tore Gotham apart."

"I know." Dick closed his eyes. "Look, he can take on another costume. Sawyer's as good as told me that she's not deliberately out to catch him. Another name, another alias and..."

"Maybe," Selina said dubiously. "But if he walks away now, it's like he's throwing her offer back in her face. How well is she going to take _that_?"

Dick shook his head, frowning. "I've had a working relationship with her for over two years, and I don't know the answer to that one. I mean, for all the rules and red tape she's laying down, she's still going out on a limb for him and probably risking her career. And she really just knows Bruce by reputation. I'm not sure how much _Gordon_ would have extended himself if he were in Sawyer's place at this point." He shifted to a more comfortable position. "Of course, if the JLA can help him re-establish his UN sanction—"

"He's pulled stuff with them, too," Selina pointed out. "They're probably going to want some guarantees of their own. If I were Bruce, I'd resent it more if my _friends_ were the ones insisting I prove myself all over again. I'm just saying."

Dick nodded. "I take your point. Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that. Bruce has a way of achieving the impossible. Maybe that'll still hold true."

Selina grinned. "He does, doesn't he? Hope springs eternal."

Dick leaned forward, suddenly all-business. "Yeah, you know who else has just sprung? From Blackgate?"

"Huh?" Selina whipped out a pair of binoculars. "Oh, for the love of... That's Tiger Ross. He tried to frame me for swiping the Mackenzie Bast statuary three years ago."

"Well he's breaking into the Kotka Gallery."

"I'll kill him." She groaned. "No, I can't. I promised Bruce. Damn it!"

Dick grinned. "Selina... Catwoman... you've got to start projecting. You don't kill him. You make him _wish_ you were gonna. Wanna see?"

"Right. Like I'll let you take the lead on a cat-themed B-and-E. Out of my way, Junior-Bat." She hooked her grapnel around the nearest building and leaped off, Dick right behind her.

And it had been such a quiet night, too...

* * *

Bruce pointed the gun at the target, irritated to see that his hand was shaking. Maybe he _was_ rushing things a bit. More than a bit; he'd finally managed to load the Beretta for the first time less than twenty-four hours earlier. Actually using it might be expecting too much too soon. He unloaded the gun and put the rounds back into the box.

He frowned. Then, impulsively, he raised the empty gun and aimed it once more at the target. This time his hand held steady. His heart, on the other hand, thudded madly. He did not want to do this. The refrain in his head was getting old by now. He'd tried to build a life where he had sufficient control not to have to do things he didn't want to. _That_ had been working just fine for the last little while, he thought sarcastically. Sure, there were some things that were unavoidable: taxes, sleep, society affairs with people who were every bit as shallow and vapid as he affected to be. But he had never dreamed that he would be in a position where he would be forced to use a gun.

_Are we back to this again? Stop whining. You can hate this all you like, but master it just the same._

Bruce winced. Then, leaving the unloaded gun on the table, he walked over to the security array and checked one of the monitors. A smile came to his lips. He quickly returned the gun to the trophy room and went upstairs.

When he opened the door to Helena's bedroom, she opened her eyes sleepily. "Daddy?"

Bruce stroked the line of her jaw gently with his fingertips. "Go back to sleep, Helena," he whispered, realizing with a pang that she probably wouldn't have awakened had he not opened the door. "I'm sorry."

Helena smiled. "Story?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "It's late..." he said, doubt plain in his voice.

"Story."

He looked down at her. "Please?"

Helena giggled. "Peas. Story, peas."

Bruce nearly laughed. "Peas, huh? You want me to tell you a story about peas?"

"Ya."

He surrendered gracefully to the inevitable. After all, it was his fault that she was awake. "Once upon a time, there were five peas... in a pod who," he smiled, "who always said 'please' and 'thank you.' Now one day, the peas were hanging from their plant in the garden, which your Uncle Jim and I should really think about planting soon, when all of a sudden..."

Twenty minutes later, Bruce left his sleeping daughter and made his way back down to the cave. He looked toward the trophy room, where the gun awaited him. Then he looked back at the security arrays. His daughter deserved to have a father who wasn't one step ahead of the law and constantly looking over his shoulder. She deserved to have a father she wouldn't have to lie about, when people asked what he did for a living. She deserved a far better father than he could ever be, but he was too much of a coward to tell Selina as much. That wasn't the only reason, of course, but just because he couldn't state the other one out loud didn't mean he didn't feel it.

_Selina asked me if this whole experiment was worth it. For Helena's sake, it is. And if that's the case..._ If that was the case, then he needed to do his part. Maybe his earlier thought had been correct and he _was_ taking on too much too soon. Maybe this unhappy experiment _was_ doomed to failure. But before he would allow himself to accept the possibility as fact, he needed to know that he had sincerely tried to do this thing.

Bruce bit his lip. Then he went to retrieve the gun. If his aim was steady when he didn't have live ammunition in the gun, then maybe he'd find it easier to practice with rubber bullets instead of live rounds.

_And maybe he could become enough of an expert with a gun that—at least for him—'shooting to wound' would be more than a fantasy. _His eyebrows lifted. Batarangs were potentially lethal too, and he had practiced long and hard to make sure that they only flew where they were supposed to. If he could somehow manage that same feat with a firearm... He was getting ahead of himself. First things first. He scanned the shelves of the trophy room, looking for the rubber bullets.

* * *

The late afternoon rush at the coffee shop seemed to drag on forever. Sharon kept looking at the clock, unable to believe how little time was actually passing. She was glad that Ron would be driving her to her second job—he had been for the last two weeks, ever since he had first sounded her out on the idea of keeping Wayne from regaining any standing with PMWE.

Now, as the minute hand of the clock crawled ever-so-slowly toward the 12 and the hour hand remained just a hairsbreadth away from the six, Sharon was nearly giddy with anticipation. She couldn't wait to tell him what she'd done on her way to work this morning. She'd had to agree to work half of Margie's Sunday shift this week, but just this once, it had been worth it. There had been a wait at the police station, and she'd barely made it into the coffee shop by noon, but it didn't matter. She was going to have her glamorous evening, and Wayne wouldn't be able to do a thing about it!

"Sharon?"

She looked up. Ron was smiling in the doorway. "Sorry I'm a minute late. Traffic's bad tonight. I'm just waiting around the corner on Snyder, but if I see a police car, I'm going to have to circle."

"No problem," Sharon smiled back. "Just let me get my till put away and grab my coat and I'll be right there."

The whole short walk to the car, she felt like she was walking on a cloud. Ron sensed her mood when she got into his car.

"You had a good day, I take it?"

"I had a _glorious_ day," she beamed. "I did something brilliant. I can't believe I didn't think of it before!"

"Oh really?" Ron smiled, catching some of her enthusiasm. "What?"

Sharon giggled maliciously. "Something that's going to keep Wayne out of our hair for a while..."


	3. Chapter 2: Playing With Matches

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta. Thanks to PJ and her colleagues at the San Jose PD for assistance with Police Academy candidate vetting procedures. Information on Gotham's Battergate neighborhood comes from _The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City_, designed and developed by Matt Brady and Dwight Williams. Edited by Fred Jandt and Nikola Vrtis (Honesdale: West End Games, 2000).

A/N: "Walking Through Fire" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her _Come On Come On _album (Columbia, 1992).

A/N: For the purpose of this AU, Barry is back and Wally hasn't gone anywhere. Wally's identity is still publicly known. Barry's is secret. At present, both men are sharing the Flash role, although Barry tends to handle more JLA-type business and Wally works closer to home. The general public is not aware that there are two Flashes. The current Aquaman in this AU is Arthur Joseph Curry (He had a brief cameo in _The Way Back,_ which was written prior to Orin's return in DC canon).

_When you set a match to your heart, fueling it with bitterness and doubt  
That's the place that once it starts, no amount of tears can put out  
I know you're scared, but no one's spared when you play with matches_

—_Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Walking Through Fire"_

**Chapter Two—Playing With Matches**

"You are not helping," Bruce muttered darkly, as Selina giggled.

Helena whimpered and struggled to get out of the high chair. The tray before her gave ample testimony to what she thought of mashed parsnips and carrots: in her eyes, they might qualify as an art supply, but not a foodstuff.

"I'm sorry," Selina gasped. "It's just that somehow, I never thought that the scourge of Gotham's underworld would find himself powerless to defeat a nemesis who hasn't even celebrated her second birthday yet!"

Bruce turned to face Selina. "What exactly would you like me to do?" he asked wearily. "It's not like I can dangle her over the side of a building until she promises to eat her vegetables."

"No, she seems to like heights," Selina nodded sagely. "But seriously, I wish I had a camera rolling."

"Frankly, I'm glad you don't," Bruce rejoined, hoping that she'd forgotten about the...

"Oh, that's right! You've got the entire house under surveillance. I'll have to check out the footage later. You can burn a copy to disc, right?"

_Damn_. He only hoped that she didn't plan to show it to anyone else, but knowing her, if he brought up the subject, he was only guaranteeing that she would.

The gate intercom buzzed.

Bruce frowned. "Are you expecting anybody?"

"No. You?"

He shook his head. "Get Helena into the Cave," he said. "If I don't come down in ten minutes, take a car and get out of here."

Selina looked at him for a long moment. "Unless assassination-by-intercom is a thing, now, I don't think I need to hide in the basement _quite_ yet." All the same, she held out her arms for her daughter.

Bruce lifted Helena out of the high chair and handed her over. There was an orange stain gracing the shoulder of his navy blue pullover.

The bell rang again. He went to the vestibule and checked the camera at the front gate. Selina followed. There was a slight figure standing there in a non-descript quilted jacket and jeans. Bruce couldn't be certain whether it was a man or a woman, but whoever it was they were glancing nervously over their shoulder and trembling. "Yes?" he asked.

"Please! You gotta help me." The voice was young, female, and decidedly frightened.

"Who are you?" he asked calmly, hoping to steady the caller at the gate.

"M-My name's Muriel Wake. The name on the sign... This _is_ the Bruce Wayne who's Batman, right? I mean... I mean there wouldn't be two of you, oh shi—I'm sorry, I'm babbling, but I'm in real trouble and I can't go to the cops. Please... they-they're tailing us. Me and my sister. I don't think I have more than a ten minute lead. I..." there was a coughing, followed by loud panting as Muriel tried to catch her breath.

Bruce hesitated. He turned away from the intercom and looked at Selina. "She _sounds_ like she could be legit," he said in a low tone. "But..."

"Bruce!" Selina said sharply, "sometimes you're just too paranoid for your own good. She's alone, she's in trouble, she's scared, and frankly, even if she does turn out to be Poison Ivy in disguise, I think you can handle her."

"And if you're wrong, I won't be the only one in danger."

"And if _you're_ wrong, and something happens because you wouldn't let her in... What are you doing?" she demanded, as Bruce tapped some buttons on a console by the intercom.

"Sending voice and visual to the analyzer in the Cave. Take Helena down there and check the results. Meanwhile, I'll let her onto the grounds, but not into the manor, until you give me the all-clear."

Selina gave him a hard look. "Fine," she snapped. She shifted her hold on Helena. "Come on downstairs, Honey. Daddy's being an overprotective ass again."

Bruce ignored her and spoke again into the intercom. "I'm opening the gate for you now," he said. "You can come up the drive to the house, but wait in your car. I'll come out."

The response was a near-incoherent babble of thanks.

"Stay in the car—both of you. I'll be out momentarily."

He switched off the intercom, walked into the hallway, and waited a few minutes before turning on a different intercom. "Selina?

"Hang on," she muttered. I can't believe I'm doing this. "Okay, her face and voice aren't in your database, and close-ups show no evidence of make-up, latex, or any other methods of disguise. She looks like she's in her mid-twenties. Another woman's in the passenger seat—looks about the same age, and facial recognition software's drawing a similar blank. Now, are you going to help them, or do you want them to stew a little longer while you put on a bullet-proof vest?"

"Don't think I haven't considered it." He ignored her snarl. "What's Helena doing?"

"Right now? She's making a mess in the play area. I mean, I'm sure you'd say she's experimenting with the stackability of Beanie Babies, but I'm just calling a spade a spade."

Bruce nodded. "Watch the cameras." He closed the connection and walked to the front door. There was a beat-up Impala parked on the front drive. As Bruce approached the car, the front doors opened and both women came out.

"I'm Muriel," the driver introduced herself. "And you," she gushed, "are a lifesaver. While we were waiting for you, we saw the car that's been following us drive right on by without stopping! Thank you so much!" She held out her right hand for him to shake.

Bruce smiled. Selina had been right. He _had _been acting a bit over-cautious. "That's quite all right," he said magnanimously, reaching for her hand.

That was when she brought her left hand forward and pressed a folded sheet of paper into it.

"What's this?" Bruce asked sharply as the second woman held up a camera and snapped a photo.

Muriel smiled. "Congratulations, Mr. Wayne. You've just been served."

Ten minutes later, Selina walked into the den. Bruce was slumped on the sofa with a stunned expression, still holding the paper.

"I put Helena in the nursery," she said softly. "What... what happened? Who was that?"

Bruce didn't answer. Selina took hold of the paper and tugged. For a moment, Bruce held on. Then, with a sigh, he relinquished it. "Process servers," he said in disbelief.

"Excuse me?" Selina gaped at him. She read the page hastily. "Bruce... this... this is..."

* * *

Ron Chester was out of his element. Give him a new product, regardless of how esoteric or how ridiculous it appeared, he could find some way to spin it. At the tender age of 22, when he was still working in the garment trade, he had (in his then-boss's exact words) single-handedly saved their women's coat line when a production error had left them saddled with 15,000 short-sleeved full-length minks. While his higher-ups had been staring open-mouthed at the monstrosities, Chester had raced over to the accessories section and liberated a pair of fur-trimmed evening gloves with a matching roller hat. He had then dressed a mannequin in coat, gloves, and hat, and presented the finished look to his bosses.

The head of marketing had been non-committal, but they'd been desperate enough to try his idea. The coats had sold. In fact, the coats had sold so well that they'd had to produce another 5,000, just to meet demand. His bosses had regarded him as a marketing genius, and by the time he was 30, he'd been targeted by several headhunting firms. He'd accepted WE's offer and served as their VP of Marketing for over a decade now. There were few negatives he couldn't downplay or turn into positives... in a marketing context.

Unfortunately, his current predicament had all the earmarks of a disaster, and he didn't think he'd be able to solve it with a pair of evening gloves!

He gaped at the woman seated next to him in the car. "Y-you what?" he gasped, when he finally found his voice.

Sharon Ryerson grinned. "I went downtown and filed a restraining order against Bruce Wayne," she repeated cheerfully. "If he can't get within five hundred feet of me, he can't come to the gala if I'm there, so he stays away, the dinner goes ahead, and everything's good. Right?"

Ron's mind worked furiously as strangled sounds came out of his throat. He wanted to explain to her that restraining orders didn't work the way she seemed to think they did, that she had just opened a massive can of worms, that... he didn't even know what, but something other than what he _was_ doing, which was opening and closing his mouth like a codfish!

"Are you choking?" Sharon asked, suddenly concerned.

He took a deep breath. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

Sharon shook her head. "Nope. I was afraid they'd try talking me out of it. Bureaucracies take forever," she said, rolling her eyes. "Go here, go there, fill out this form, no that one, sign here, initial there..." She laughed. "If I'd known it was going to take that long, I probably would have lost my nerve and given up, but..."

"But you didn't," Ron said with forced cheer.

"Nope. The paperwork is in the system, and a temporary order should go out today or tomorrow. So? Brilliant or what?"

Ron's smile might have been painted on. "Let me get you to Sheldon Park," he murmured. "I'll be sure to let my associates know what you've done."

_And hopefully, they'll know if there's any way to clear the area before this hits the fan!_

"But what do you think?" Sharon asked eagerly.

Ron sighed. "I think that this could be something major," he said, trying hard to smile.

Only the fervent hope that perhaps one of the other Board members would see a way to turn this series of events around kept him from throttling her. He had to call Les Paxton as soon as possible. Damage control... there had to be some way out of this, he told himself. Somehow, there had to be a way to spin this.

* * *

"Eight days?" Detective Maury Chiarello blinked. "You're asking me," he drawled, "to complete a background check in eight days. For someone like Wayne." He shook his head. "You know who I should be inviting to come down and talk to about him? Superman. Aquaman. Flash. And all the other capes."

Maggie regarded him with a steady gaze. "Yes, exactly. And?"

"No, Commissioner. Please. Don't give me that 'I-don't-understand-the-problem' look when you know damned well this isn't going to go off without a hitch. I don't know if you realize it, but I can't exactly find the JLA's phone number at four-one-one-dot-com."

"They have a public number."

Chiarello groaned. "So does the White House. Ten to one, if I needed to phone the President, he'd get back to me twice as fast. Actually, scratch that," he went on. "Half of eternity is still eternity, and that's how long I'll probably be waiting for anyone to... what's this?" He blinked as Maggie slapped a lined sheet of yellow paper on his desk blotter.

"Don't lose it," she replied. "I had to give a lot of assurances to secure this information—including a promise that it would not be kept in any database, and that we would destroy it once the investigation was complete. Don't make a liar out of me, Chiarello." She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

"What is it?"

"According to one of my predecessors," Maggie said, "it's the contact number for the JLA's...dispatcher. Actually, this individual handles some other associations as well—so if you need to speak with anyone in the JSA or the Titans, for example, this number is your first step. If the party at the other end can't help you directly, they'll try to hook you up with someone who can."

Chiarello took the paper, folded it hastily and put it in his breast pocket. "Most of these people," he said with considerably less heat than he had a minute ago, "they... even if I can get in contact with them, you know how they are. Always running off to deal with some disaster or other... it's hard to pin them down for any length of time. I mean, I guess if it's a choice between saving the universe and coming down to the precinct, I can see where their priorities are going to be, but..." He shook his head. "You're really not giving me much of a timeframe."

Maggie smiled. "Call the number, Maury. I think you might be pleasantly surprised." The smile became a smirk. "I've been told that some of these people are actually pretty friendly compared to a few of our locals..."

* * *

"So when they call..." Barbara was saying.

Her computer monitor was subdivided into 64 squares. A different face looked out at her from each one.

"We'll be there," Superman confirmed.

"Oracle?"

It took her a moment to realize who was speaking. "Hi, Barry. It's been too long."

Flash smiled. "It seems like just yesterday you were telling me all about how you were planning to run for Congress and..."

"Yeah, time flies."

Barry shook his head. "You have _no_ idea. Anyway, to put it bluntly, who's going to be more of a help? Barry Allen police scientist-turned-detective, or the Flash?"

Barbara considered. "Well... I think they only need _one_ Scarlet Speedster." She thought about it a moment longer. "Wear the suit. It'll avoid all the questions about how a cop in another state can know him so well. Besides, they're going to be calling for 'The Flash'. So unless you're planning on outing yourself..."

"Point taken."

"Some of the things he's done," Clark spoke now. "I know that the investigators are going to be expecting full disclosure. Which, as I'm sure you can appreciate, would normally fall under betraying a trust. From what you're saying, in this case...?" He left the question hanging.

"We've been telling him... my father's been telling him, anyway... that full disclosure _is _the way to go." She hesitated. "What Bruce is going to do once they've got him under the microscope may not be as cut-and-dried as all that." She brought a hand to her forehead and pushed back her bangs, making a mental note that it was time for another haircut. "Guys... if you really want to know... maybe you could _ask_ him." _And leave me out of it_, she added silently.

"How many of us are they going to want to contact?" Roy asked.

"I don't know, but be ready if you're one of them." A light began to flash on her console. "Hang on. Incoming call. This could be it."

She blanked out the array, set the voice scrambler, and accepted the call. "Yes?" There was a pause. Then a slightly-hesitant voice posed a short question. Oracle smiled. "Yes, this is. I've been expecting your call, Detective Chiarello." She fought to keep her voice neutral. It had been less than 24 hours since she had found out that the detective who had interviewed her for Dick's background check four years ago was now doing the same kind of work in Gotham. She straightened her shoulders and continued briskly. "Do you have a number at which you can be reached? Very well. If you give me the names, I will ask those individuals to contact you. If they fail to do so within two hours, please do call this number again. May I have your list please?"

She listened, frowning. "My apologies, Detective. I regret to inform you that the individual currently using that name began his tenure as Aquaman less than two years ago. To the best of my knowledge, he and your candidate have never met. That is correct. The individual to whom you likely wish to speak is deceased." Although she knew that he couldn't see her, she lowered her head and closed her eyes as Chiarello stammered condolences. "Thank you." She took a deep breath. "May I have the next name?"

A few moments later, she ended the call and restored the array. "Okay. So far, he wants to talk to fifteen of you—or rather fourteen," she corrected, "although he thinks otherwise. I'll explain in a second. He may want to talk to more before the investigation's complete. I'm transmitting his phone number to the people he's chosen now. Let me know if you don't receive it momentarily. In alphabetical order: Arsenal, Batgirl, Black Canary, Black Lightning, Flash, Green Lantern, Green Arrow. Harrier? He's asking specifically for both you and 'Robin'. Up to you if you want to publicize your... evolution or wear your old suit to the second interview. And try to make sure that whether you're 'Robin' or 'Harrier,' you and Tim Drake aren't scheduled back-to-back, seeing as once Chiarello's done talking to capes, he's going to start on civilians."

Tim nodded.

Barbara took another breath. "Hawkman," she continued, "Huntress, Looker, Plastic Man, Superman, Wonder Woman. The rest of you," her gaze slowly panned the array, "think of yourselves as being on standby. The investigator is working against a deadline, but within the confines of that deadline, he's going to follow up with everyone he can. As for the names I've just read off," she smiled, "I told him you'd be calling within the next hour or so, so snap to it."

Roy brought two fingers to his temple in a brisk salute. "Ma'am! Yes, Ma'am!"

Barbara grinned. "Thanks, guys," she said, dropping the stiff pose, "Oracle out."

* * *

"Repeat that once more, Chester," Les Paxton said icily. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly."

Ron Chester swallowed. "She had Wayne slapped with a TRO."

Paxton nodded, his expression grim. "Very well. We know that if Wayne is smart—and past appearances notwithstanding, it's fairly plain that he is—he'll consult with a lawyer and attempt to contest. At that point, the Temporary Restraining Order will be overturned and Ms. Ryerson may find herself the victim of a defamation lawsuit." He sniffed. "_I'd_ certainly file one."

"She doesn't deserve that," Chester said uneasily. "She's not thinking clearly. She blames Wayne for her husband's death, and she made a stupid move. But she's also trying to make ends meet and raise a teenage son she barely sees because she's out working two jobs to support him."

Paxton held up one hand. Then, deliberately, he rubbed the tip of his thumb against the tip of his index finger. When Chester looked perplexed, he began to hum a tune that sounded vaguely classical.

"Les? Are you all right?"

Paxton smiled. "I'm just playing the world's smallest violin for her." His voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Listen! Can't you hear it? Can you not see the deep sympathy etched into the lines of my face, oozing out through every pore? Can't you?"

"Um..."

"NO!" Paxton bellowed. "BECAUSE... IT'S... NOT... _THERE_! Now listen to me, you weepy, whiny sonovabitch! That woman's ill-advised action stands an excellent chance of rebounding on us and landing _us_ in the middle of the media frenzy we're trying to unleash on Wayne. Only we won't get a couple of weeks in the tabloids and a few pictures on the society page. Oh, no. No, if she spills the wrong words to the wrong people, this could reflect on us very, _very_ BADLY! Unless..."

Chester blinked. He didn't like Paxton's smile. Not at all. "Unless?" he stammered.

"She's filed for a restraining order on what grounds? Harassment?"

"That's right."

"So when Wayne goes to fight this, as he almost definitely will—if he doesn't, that's almost all the proof we need that he's incompetent right there—when Ryerson is unable to produce evidence that Wayne has had any dealings with her, the judge will overturn the TRO on the spot."

"Yes..."

"Well," Paxton said slowly, "what if there _was _evidence?"

* * *

If scowls were audible, Bruce thought he might have heard Rae Green's over the other line. Instead, her intake of breath sounded suspiciously like a snarl.

"Have you had any kind of contact with her since her outburst at your hearing? Have any of your... colleagues?"

"No," Bruce said quickly. "And no. I verified with them before I called you. Her neighborhood isn't one of the places that I or my people have had cause to patrol since the Rebuild. Until I saw the address on the TRO, I didn't even know where she lived."

Rae gave a noncommittal grunt. "I've never even heard of 'Wrightson Way' before," she added. "Where is that?"

"Battergate."

"Ah." The area was one of Gotham's true successes of urban reclamation. It had been one of the city's worst slums until the Cataclysm, but since the end of the No Man's Land, Battergate had shown marked improvement in virtually all socio-economic indicators. Today it was a quiet blue-collar area with clean streets and parks, safe schools, and an active neighborhood association.

There was a moment's pause. Bruce could hear the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. "The TRO should specify a date and time for a hearing. Does it?"

Bruce gave it.

Rae exhaled. "Fine. You and I will both attend that hearing and get this overturned. It shouldn't be too hard, unless," her voice grew stern, "she is able to prove that you have directly or indirectly harassed her. Indirect would be harder to prove, but a judge might still accept the argument. Therefore, between now and the hearing date, it is essential that you abide by the terms of the TRO. Avoid Battergate. Tell your people to let the police handle any incidents that might take place there. Do not call her to try to 'settle things amicably'. Do not write her an apology letter or send some belated condolence card. Do not make a donation to Victim Support in her late husband's name. And try to make sure that there are others in your vicinity that can corroborate your presence at any given time."

Bruce bristled. "I'm hardly an amateur, Rae."

"No," Rae's voice was kind but firm. "However, you are a person facing a false accusation. You wouldn't be the first one to think that because they haven't done anything wrong, the whole thing is a simple misunderstanding and easily cleared up. You remember the outburst she made at your hearing? That was just the tip of the iceberg. She protested when you were remanded to Arkham instead of being forced to stand trial. She's created numerous online petitions calling for you to be permanently locked up."

"How many signers?" Bruce asked, stunned.

"Not many, but that's beside the point. The woman needs help—I'm not denying that. I am telling you that the offer of said help cannot come from you or any of your... people. If she's like this when you legitimately aren't trying to approach her, imagine what she'll be like if you do." She took a breath. "As your lawyer, I am counselling you to leave her alone until the hearing. As your friend... I'm begging you."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I understand, Rae. Thanks."

"See you at the hearing."

* * *

Maury Chiarello knocked briskly on the commissioner's door. "I have to hand it to you, Ma'am," he admitted with a wry smile. "That contact was gold."

Sawyer smiled. "I thought you might find it that way," she said.

"Pardon my asking, but do you know who...?"

"No," she said shaking her head. "And I don't care to. I'm more interested in their assistance than in trying to puzzle out who I'm dealing with. That particular mindset tends to make my dealings with the Capes a good deal less frustrating, as I'm sure you can understand." Her expression turned serious. "Detective, have you given any thought as to where you'll be conducting the interviews?"

Chiarello blinked. "My office, I guess. Why?"

Sawyer shook her head. "Use the empty one across the hall from mine. It's accessible from the roof, and the window overlooks the alley. It'll make your contacts' entrances and exits more... discreet."

Understanding flowed between the detective and the commissioner. "I'll let that dispatcher know," he nodded. "Thanks, Ma'am."

"Don't thank me," Sawyer shot back. "Thank them. They're trying to accommodate us. The least we can do for them is keep things as painless as possible."

* * *

On the way up the elevator to his office, Ron tried hard not to let his nervousness show. He'd always known that Les Paxton was a dangerous man to cross, but until now, he'd never thought his colleague would suggest something so patently _wrong_. Wrong, he reflected. Not just illegal, but wrong. Because, after all, legality and morality didn't always have to intersect. There were many business practices which were perfectly legal, but which on some level offended his sense of right and wrong. There were other laws—designed to penalize large corporations and level playing fields—that made him gnash his teeth in frustration. He was never surprised when Paxton found loopholes in those laws. He wouldn't have been shocked to hear that his colleague had paid off the right politicians at the right times so that various projects could get green-lighted without municipal interference. But he had never thought he'd see the day when he'd hear Les Paxton talk quite coolly about framing an innocent man for a serious crime.

He swallowed. Things were out of hand. Something needed to be done. Because if Les could do this to get someone like Wayne out of the way, Ron had no doubt that one day, Les would cook up some similar way to dispose of _him._

With these thoughts in his head, Ron turned the knob of the door to his office. His eyes opened wide, even as his heart plummeted to his shoes.

"Ron!" Bruce Wayne bounded off the couch and pumped his hand energetically. "How have you been keeping, you old dog? You look great. Have you been hitting the slopes at all, this winter?"

Ron tried to find his voice. "B-Bruce," he managed. "How are you?"

All at once, he became aware of soft laughter coming from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to behold Les Paxton standing in the doorway. "Is it a good likeness, or what?" Les said, shutting the office door. He strode forward and placed a fatherly hand on Ron's shoulder.

Ron blinked. Then he looked back to see that the man he could have sworn was Bruce Wayne was pulling off a latex mask. Beneath the mask was a scarred visage, capped by a mop of unruly brown hair. "What," he began weakly, "what's going on?"

Paxton's smile turned nearly feral. "Ron," he drawled, "this gentleman is the solution to our little problem. Ron Chester, I'd like you to meet..."

The stranger grinned back. "You may address me as 'False Face'."


	4. Chapter 3: When You Want to Walk

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta! Thanks to PJ for help with Police vetting procedures and sample PHQ questions. Other questions taken from Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department PHQ.

"Hard Life" Lyrics performed by Jo Dee Messina on her _Unmistakable: Love_ album (Curb, 2010).

_Hurry up, talk the talk  
Say "yes sir", when you wanna walk  
And bite your tongue  
Tell yourself you're paying dues  
The trouble is ya know the truth_

—_Jo Dee Messina, "Hard Life"_

**Chapter 3—When You Want to Walk**

It was instinctive. If someone stretched out a hand to him, Ron shook it heartily, without processing who the greeter was. One of these days, he knew, he'd come up on the wrong end of one of Joker's joy buzzers, but his great aunt Maude had always acted as though bad manners were a condition worse than death anyway. By the time he was five, he'd learned that if Great Aunt Maude were unhappy, usually, one way or another, _he_ ended up unhappy, too. So, although the last thing he wanted to do was smile and shake False Face's hand, he did so warmly. Then he looked to Les. "How does this work exactly?" he asked, wearing his best poker face.

Paxton smiled. "It's simple," he said calmly. "At some point prior to the court date, you and Sharon will meet to discuss strategy. At a prearranged time, during your little tête-à-tête, there will be a noise from outside. You'll both look up and see Bruce Wayne glaring at you through the window—so make sure the blinds, curtains, or what-have-you are open. Fortunately, you'll have your cell-phone with you and you'll have the presence of mind to snap a photo or two. Make sure you have the time and date stamp. Maybe get some shots of Sharon posing by the window either before or after Mister..." He chuckled. "Mister... er... Face shows up, to establish that Wayne was at her house and she didn't just hire a photographer to snap a candid shot of him somewhere else and later _claim_ it was at her house."

Ron thought quickly. "No offense to either of you," he said, "but didn't we suggest bringing in outside help at our first meeting? I thought we'd rejected that option."

For a moment Paxton looked puzzled. "What...? Oh, I think I know what you mean." He smiled. "You're talking about when someone suggested bringing Joker onboard. No," he turned to False Face. "We did strike that idea down pretty fast, and a good thing too. I don't deal with murderers, especially not those with a reputation for stabbing their friends in the back." All hint of joviality vanished. "I take a _very_ dim view of disloyalty."

Ron nodded, resisting the urge to ask him what exactly he thought he was doing to Bruce.

"Our new associate," Paxton continued, "may have something of a shadowed past, but at least it's not a violent one." He looked at False Face. "I presume you'll have no problem going to the meeting unarmed?"

False Face shook his head. "I've never enjoyed violence," he said. "It's why I started disguising myself in the first place; why bludgeon people standing between you and your goal when, if they think they can trust you, nine times out of ten, they'll either get out of your way or help you to that goal?"

Paxton beamed. "Sir, I believe I like the way you think." He turned to Ron. "See?"

Ron pretended to think it over. Then, with a calm he hadn't thought he could fake, he said, "I wish we'd discussed this earlier, Les. I really hate having surprises dropped on me like this."

"But you can work with it?"

Ron gave him a quick smile. "Just because I don't like having to think on my feet doesn't mean I _can't_, Les. Leave this with me for a bit. I want to look at the angles; make sure we have all our bases covered."

Paxton nodded. "Try to get back to me by the end of the day," he said.

Ron let out a low whistle. "Good thing I work well under pressure."

False Face chortled. Paxton laughed. "Come on, False Face. Let's let the resident spin doctor turn our straw into gold."

The two men left his office. Ron slowly walked to his desk and slumped into his chair. This was just too much. Someone had to stop Paxton now, before things went any farther.

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham set down the paper and regarded Cass, his expression unreadable. Cass _should_ have been able to get an inkling of what was going through his head from his body language, but the asylum director was a rigid man, not given to stray movements. If he were more relaxed, she would be able to pick up more, but it was hard to read his movements when he made so few of them.

He was frowning, but that told her nothing. Frowns came more easily to him than smiles. He frowned if she arrived late, if she appeared too eager, if she appeared too anxious, if she needed to excuse herself to go to the bathroom, if she tried to make small talk—and she did try, hoping that it might set him more at ease. His current expression might be caused by a misplaced comma, or by the little yappy dog that someone had tied up outside the store across the street that was trying to jump on passersby.

"Well?" She asked finally.

Jeremiah handed her back the essay. "You're still leaving out articles," he rapped out. "_A_ murderer," he pointed to a paragraph on the page. "Here, and you make the same error again, here."

Cass nodded. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, young woman," Jeremiah replied. "You were using them correctly until that paragraph. Then, it's as though you became careless."

She felt her face grow hot. "Not... careless," she mumbled. "Words... had to come fast. Couldn't write enough." How to explain what it had been like—to have the ideas practically screaming to come out on the page, when she could barely type one before the next caught her attention. She'd lost control of the essay. The thoughts had needed to come out, even if she hadn't had the right words or skills to express them. It had been like being caught in a flood—frightening, and yet strangely exhilarating—except that she had swum the tide... _clunkily_.

Arkham shook his head impatiently. "There's no reason to apologize for stream-of-consciousness writing," he said tartly. "It's undisciplined and undirected, yes, but there is a certain raw depth and power to it that you ought not to discourage." He pushed the page back to her. "However, once you _have_ let the words out, you need to review and revise."

Cass made a face. "Easy for you."

"Hardly," Arkham sniffed. "There is a tendency to be blind to one's own errors. That is why most people do show their work to others before submitting it. Unfortunately, the test that you intend to take follows a different paradigm."

She blinked. "Sorry?"

Arkham's frown disappeared. She couldn't exactly call the expression on his face a smile, but it was close. "Learn the rules, Cassandra. Master the syntax. And if you finish ahead of schedule, take advantage of the extra time to look over what you've written." He pushed a folder at her. "I would suggest that you use these study sheets for help with your civics," he added.

Cass looked in the folder. "You... did this... for me?"

Arkham cleared his throat. "You need the work. It's scarcely as though I had anything better to do with my time." He held up a hand, as though to ward off her smile. "Now, to work. Leave me to my newspaper in peace." He gestured to the pencil lying before her.

Cass nodded. "Thank you."

He harrumphed again and motioned to the practice pages.

* * *

Ron reached for the telephone and began to dial Lucius Fox's extension. He could have just hit the speed-dial, of course, but he thought he could use the extra couple of seconds to frame what he was going to say. Also, that was one button, whereas the extension was four. Which meant that if he changed his mind...

He hit three buttons before he replaced the receiver. What if he just told Les that this whole idea was preposterous? That they'd already had one thing go haywire with the plan, and that Les's idea of 'damage control' was moving their scheme out of 'nasty-but-necessary' and into 'downright illegal'? He hadn't signed on for any of this.

He was concerned about the possible loss of shareholder confidence should Bruce take over the corporate reins. Corporations had their ups and downs and were impacted by many factors—including sheer dumb luck. But with Wayne at the helm, who knew what that would do for PMWE's share values? Even if Wayne was now mentally fit, who was to say that, without Batman to occupy his time, he wasn't looking to take a more hands-on approach to the company? And that _could_ prove disastrous. So far as Ron knew, Bruce Wayne had no formal business training whatsoever. The man had left school at the age of fifteen and dropped off the face of the earth, only to return to Gotham a decade later. Not long afterwards, he'd hired Lucius Fox to handle the day-to-day running of the company and devoted his own day to spending as much time away from the board room as possible.

Ron reached for the phone again. His first loyalty was to PMWE, and whatever was in its best interests. And whether those 'best interests' included Bruce Wayne in the executive chair or not, Ron was reasonably sure that they didn't include being on the receiving end of a potentially messy lawsuit which basically boiled down to an attempt to wrest the company away from its majority shareholder. He didn't want to be a part of it. He couldn't be. But crossing Les Paxton wasn't a thing to undertake lightly and without forethought.

He could confront him. Threaten to go to Fox—or Wayne, for that matter, if Paxton didn't drop the idea. They could contain this without involving False Face. First Sharon's idea about a restraining order's effectiveness in her situation was completely wrong: it wouldn't keep Wayne from the gala or any other public place. It would keep him from approaching her, yes, but Paxton's original idea had hinged on _her_ approaching Wayne. And there would be hundreds of witnesses at the gala to attest to who confronted whom. The proper thing to do now, Ron realized, was for the PMWE board to distance itself from Sharon Ryerson. Drop the idea; let Wayne come to the gala. Really, just because he was attending a party didn't mean that he was looking to return to the company so fast. And even if that was a long-term goal, if Wayne was working slowly, then the board could afford to do the same.

As for Sharon, Ron frowned. He really didn't bear her any ill will. She was a deeply-troubled woman, still mourning the loss of her husband. Although he couldn't have predicted her taking out the restraining order, the fact remained that she'd probably never have gone that route had the board not decided to involve her. And now, the most sensible thing to do was to disavow her and let her bear the brunt of any repercussions. Threaten her with the same sort of messy legal processes that they'd initially used for Bruce—with one crucial difference. If Bruce was willing to deal with the media spotlight that a drawn-out legal battle would involve, he had the means and ability to fight back for as long as necessary. Sharon didn't. If she didn't agree to keep quiet about PMWE's involvement, the corporate lawyers would make mincemeat out of her. Bottom line: without funds, she couldn't afford the kind of legal representation she'd need to have a decent chance. PMWE would win and she would be left high and dry. He sighed. Justice and legality didn't always go hand in hand.

Still, Ron could just tell Paxton—now, today—that hiring False Face was too much, that if Paxton was intent on doing so, then he—Ron Chester—was out.

And Paxton would threaten him with something. Probably to blame him for the whole plan. The board would go along with that, Ron suspected. Someone had to be the fall guy, and most of the other members would just be happy if it wasn't them. Besides, he was already involved. It hadn't been Paxton chatting up Sharon Ryerson, nor any of the others. It should have been Ross Hendricks, he remembered. Paxton had designated him from the start. But Ross had pleaded off at the last moment—some client meeting that was running long—and begged Ron to step in. And, like a patsy, he'd done so. Ron mopped his brow. He was already in too deep.

_Ronnie, Ronnie..._ He blinked and looked around the room, wildly. For a moment, he could have sworn he'd heard Great-Aunt Maude. But he was alone. _Ronnie, when you're stuck in a hole, the first thing to do is STOP DIGGING!_

Ron Chester's eyes widened. He looked to his computer and moved the mouse to get rid of the screensaver. He called up his project folders. "No, that one's too bare bones," he muttered. "Too easy... Nowhere near ready... Ahhhhh!" He reached for his phone again, but he wasn't calling Paxton or Fox. "Frank? Do you have a moment?"

Frank Orczy, head of media relations, heard him out. Then he sputtered in disbelief. "At this point, we don't have enough trained people in the department, as it is. We're hoping to get clearance to hire a few more in a month—"

Chester's voice cut him off. "It's not high-level work, but there is a lot of it. Look, we've got a bunch of big projects on the burner now, and we don't want to lose momentum on any of them. Let me think." He frowned. "How about people who _used_ to work in your area but transferred out? Maybe their current bosses can spare them."

Orczy considered. "I have had a couple of folk leave in the last twelve months. Louisa Sherriff is already working for you, as I recall..."

Chester nodded. He'd been prepared for that suggestion. "I've had some turnover recently," he said. "She's already taken on extra duties. I can't give her more right now."

"Okay... let me think." There was a moment's silence on the line. "Lynwood Nguyen moved over to R&D."

Ron let doubt color his voice. "They're busy too at the moment, but I'll ask. Todorov's area?"

"Well, I believe Nguyen reports to Curlew, but Todorov's over Curlew, and he's probably a better one to talk to." He considered. "I have another name, for you. Richard Grayson. He was in media relations for just under two years, before he moved on to Risk Management."

Chester smiled. He'd been waiting for that suggestion. "Who's in charge over there?"

"Nadine Simms."

Chester nodded to himself. Now if Grayson was one of the only available candidates, Paxton _shouldn't_ suspect anything. Still, he should just make sure... "Anyone else?"

Orczy sniffed. "Nobody you'd want. Frankly, Sherriff would be my first choice for the kind of work you're describing. If I were you, I'd put her on it, then bring Nguyen and Grayson both on board if I could, and have them take on some of her current projects."

"Not a bad idea, Frank. I'll get in touch with Todorov and Simms. Thanks for the thought." He hung up the phone and let out a deep breath. _Step one accomplished..._

* * *

Bruce had been out the door at 7:45 that morning. If he was going to go through with this, then there was no point in delaying things any further. Sawyer had let him know yesterday that she'd assigned a backgrounder to his case—which meant that by now, the word was out among his peers. They were expecting to be contacted.

He grimaced. Sawyer had told him that the forms he needed to complete would be waiting for him any time after 9 a.m. on Monday. It was now Wednesday. Time to stop procrastinating and get started.

He got caught in the rush of morning traffic, and it was almost nine when he reached his destination. By the time he'd found a vacant spot in a nearby parking garage and made it up the steps of GCPD headquarters, it was five to nine. The way to Police Personnel wasn't marked, but Bruce had memorized the building blueprints long ago. When Akins had declared him _persona non grata_, there had still been times when he'd needed to sneak into GCPD unobserved, and knowing the quieter entrances and exits had helped.

While all GCPD workers were municipal employees, the Police Personnel Office was a unit apart from the Gotham City Human Resources office. Following his memory brought Bruce to a small cinder-block room with a water cooler in one corner, a coffee machine in another, and a couple of couches lining the walls. Two uniformed officers were loitering at the cooler. Facing Bruce, directly opposite the door, was a counter topped by a domed window that resembled nothing so much as a movie theatre ticket booth. There was a small barred grille where the glass met the counter. The booth was empty. Peering through the glass, Bruce could see that there was an inner office behind the booth, with a door at the back wall. There was nobody in the office, though.

Bruce glanced at the two officers, but they didn't seem to notice him. Or at least they were pretending not to. He gave a mental sigh. _Brady cops_. Jim had explained to him that most police departments—and the GCPD was no exception—had officers on the payroll who were rotten enough to keep off the streets, but not quite "bad" enough to be fired—not without the Department risking a wrongful dismissal suit. Among other offenders, officers who had been known to lie about what a suspect had told them in custody fell into that category. A mistake like that, Jim had explained, followed an officer for life. Any suspect they collared was likely to walk free, simply because any judge or defense attorney worth their salt would summarily discount the testimony of any officer with a known history of falsifying evidence. Brady cops generally ended up working clerical and administrative jobs—like Permits, or Personnel—often, Bruce thought with a measure of irritation, while earning a six-figure income.

He seethed silently while the two men continued to talk among themselves. Five minutes passed. Seven. Ten. Perhaps, Bruce considered, he was mistaken. The officers might be here because this was the closest coffee machine, and he might just have arrived too early. He hadn't checked what time the office opened. He'd just presumed that if it was open at nine on Monday, it would open at the same time on Wednesday. There had been no hours posted on the door, although it had been unlocked. He cleared his throat.

The officers ignored him.

"Pardon me," he ventured.

Finally, one of them glanced his way. "Hold your horses, why don't you, Mac?" he said with some exasperation. "I'll be there in a second." He shrugged to his companion. "Sorry, Hawk. Duty beckons." He looked to Bruce. "Hang on," he repeated. He clapped the other officer on the shoulder. "Have a good one, Hawk. See ya."

The two men left the room, but a moment later the door at the back of the inner office opened and the officer-who-was-not-Hawk came in and made a show of puttering around. Five minutes later, he looked up, seeming annoyed to see Bruce still standing there patiently. With a long-suffering sigh, he finally walked into the booth area. "Yeah," he said, speaking into the microphone in a bored voice. "What do you need?"

Bruce suppressed his irritation. "Commissioner Sawyer told me that there was a packet for me?"

Not a flicker of interest from the officer. "Name?"

"Bruce Wayne."

Still no reaction. The officer reached down and slammed a thick manila envelope down on the counter. He raised the grille and pushed it forward. There was a large white label stuck to the top of the envelope with a set of typed instructions. Without looking at Bruce or the envelope, the officer began to recite, word-for-word, the information on the label.

"You have seventy-two hours to complete the paperwork." He met Bruce's eyes for the first time. "Starting now. Keep your schedule clear for the next seven days."

"I know," Bruce started to say. Maggie had told him as much.

"Sir, my instructions are to explain the rules to every applicant who comes around," the officer said with a twitch of his lips that hinted at a sneer. "It's procedure. Gotta respect proper procedures now, don't we? Seeing as _we_ operate by the book and all."

Bruce caught the not-so-subtle emphasis on the word 'we,' but forced himself to smile pleasantly. "Go right ahead."

"Right. You should have three things inside that. Better look inside to make sure it's all there. Clock's ticking." He looked at Bruce expectantly.

Bruce fought back his annoyance, tore open the envelope and removed a stack of papers.

"First thing you should have in there is a standard application for all Gotham City municipal employees from cops to street sweepers."

"It's here," Bruce nodded. It was six pages long and, from what he could tell, seemed to be asking for basic personal and employment information.

"Next packet has instructions for taking the PHQ online." The officer smirked. "That's a Personal History Questionnaire, in case you were wondering."

Bruce nodded again, looking at the second stapled sheaf of papers. It was almost as thick as the first. He flipped through it idly.

"PHQ has about a hundred sixty-seven questions to answer. You have two hours from the time you log in. If you need to get up for any reason, remember to pause the program. The timer will resume automatically when you continue." The officer snorted. "Sure glad I didn't have to go through that hell you're about to experience." He sounded downright cheerful. "Oh, and if you don't finish the test by the deadline, it's an automatic fail." He smiled then, as if relishing the thought. "Flunk it? You can forget your delusions about being one of us."

Bruce blinked, barely processing the jibe. _A hundred and sixty-seven? _What was the interviewer going to have left to ask him at the face-to-face? He forced himself to ignore the officer's tone. It wasn't like he hadn't had to endure jabs like that during his two years in Arkham.

"You clear about the app and the PHQ?" the personnel officer asked, after Bruce stood unmoving for a few seconds too long.

He flipped through the pages quickly. "Yes."

"Good. Don't miss that last sheet. It's your appointment for the Live Scan. If you double-check the date and time, you'll find it's set up for... oh, about an hour from now."

"What?" The syllable escaped him involuntarily. Why hadn't Sawyer told him? If he hadn't come by today...

The officer continued in a monotone, as though Bruce hadn't spoken. "The Live Scan is the process we use to take your fingerprints electronically and run them against any records on file with the U.S. Department of Justice, the feds, the state, and other local agencies' databases. Don't worry," he added. "It won't leave you with ink stains."

"You said it's in an hour?"

The officer glanced at his watch. "Forty-one minutes and counting," he said. "Ain't it a shame you're just Batman and not the Flash?" This time, he did sneer. "Better get moving."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "Thanks for your help," he muttered as he spun on his heel and strode briskly out of the office.

On the steps outside GCPD headquarters, he called Barbara on his cell phone. "O, I need to know how quickly you can restore my fingerprint records to the necessary databases..."

* * *

Ron came back from lunch to find two young men waiting in his outer office. He smiled. "I hope I haven't kept you gentlemen waiting," he said heartily. "Mr. Grayson. Mr. Nguyen?" The two nodded. Ron shook their hands. "Come on in and I'll show you what I need." He glanced at his secretary. "Thanks, Bonnie."

When the two men entered his office, Ron's expression turned serious. "We're launching a couple of major initiatives over the next six months. Grayson, you're in Risk Management, so I'm sure you can appreciate the need for confidentiality."

Grayson nodded. Nguyen followed suit.

"Excellent. For that reason, I'd like to ask that you refrain from discussing the contents of your project files with one another. I want to stress," he added, "that it's not because I don't trust you. It's because, to be blunt, this building isn't soundproof. A lot of people think that corporate spying involves some shadowy figure breaking into an office after hours, or a master hacker figuring out the right passwords. That happens, but it's rarer than you might expect." He looked at the two of them. Grayson was nodding; Nguyen seemed to be feigning polite interest. "Many times, a corporate spy is someone who walks into the building acting like they belong here, follows an employee off the elevator, and keeps following them into a card-restricted area. This is a big place, and nobody knows everybody. What they do know is that, if they've opened a door and they see someone running—particularly if that someone is pushing a cleaning cart, or stumbling under a stack of books and papers—common courtesy dictates that they hold the door." He leaned back in his chair. "And common courtesy may allow a corporate spy into a restricted area. Once inside, that spy might learn a lot of classified information—just by walking up and down the hallways or hanging out in a locked stall in the bathroom. People talk among themselves; and sometimes, they talk about things that shouldn't be overheard. So, I want to be clear: work on these files by yourselves. Don't discuss the contents with one another. You'll find your instructions in a sealed envelope in the first folder. If you have any questions, no matter how trivial... you both have your smart phones on you?"

They nodded.

"Text or IM me. Any questions, comments, suggestions, you may have. If you can't find me, Louisa Sherriff is off-site today, but you're taking over some of her duties, so she probably knows what's going on."

Grayson frowned, but kept silent. The look on his face, though, told Ron that he was probably wondering what the rush was and why they weren't waiting for the project lead to return.

"Things are piling up pretty fast," Chester went on. "I'd feel a bit better if you two started putting a dent in the workload right now. So," he smiled, "roll up your sleeves, gentlemen. Mr. Nguyen," he picked up one stack of folders and handed them over, "these are for you. Mr. Grayson, here are yours. Now, if you'll follow me, I'll show you where you're going to be working..."

* * *

Dick found himself in a small office with a chair, desk, and computer. From the size of the room and the quality of the furniture, it appeared to have belonged to middle management, but going by the lack of personal effects, nobody else was using it now.

Dick frowned. Ron Chester had seemed affable enough, but something had been bothering him. After that speech about confidentiality... Dick wondered whether something about one of the projects might have been leaked. Maybe he'd ask Oracle to check on it. Or perhaps he'd do a bit of after-hours detective work. Idly, he opened the top folder and removed the envelope with his name on it. That struck him as a bit odd. Nadine had implied that she was loaning him to marketing to do basic "grunt-work." Unless he or Lyn had specific skills that were an exact match for some aspect of the project—in which case, one might think they'd have been brought on board sooner, it shouldn't really matter who got what. He shook his head, smiling. This was one mystery he could solve easily enough. He tore open the envelope and extracted a folded sheet of paper.

_Mr. Grayson,_

_We need to meet off-site as soon as possible. Today would be best. Can you recommend a time and place? It is vital that we not be overheard._

_Ron Chester_

Dick stared at the page for a long moment. Then he looked at the papers in the folder. They were all blank. He checked the other folders and found more clean paper. His eyebrows lifted. Chester was going to a lot of trouble just to find a way to contact him that wouldn't arouse suspicion. He reached for his phone and texted:

_Looks like I finished my work. Want to grab a coffee at the Sundollars in the Stock Exchange?_

A moment later the response came back.

_Too close. Robinson Park? In front of the castle?_

Dick considered.

_I can be there in twenty minutes._

This time, Chester's response came a moment slower.

_I'll take Pierce Avenue. You take a different route. Go now. I'll leave in 10 minutes._

Dick texted his acknowledgement. He started to leave, but stopped. If Chester was right about being observed, it wouldn't do to leave the folders lying around. Anyone finding the clean pages would either realize that something was up, or possibly suspect Dick of substituting blank papers and making off with the information.

He headed back to his cubicle in Risk Management, locked the folders in his desk and grabbed his coat.

* * *

The Live Scan went by without incident. Bruce was back at the manor by noon. Nobody else was home; Selina had taken Helena downtown to do some shopping. Jim was likely down the path at the guest cottage where he had been living since Bruce's release from Arkham. He sighed. He should be happy to have the house to himself; if that cop in Personnel hadn't just been yanking his chain, he didn't need anything distracting him from the task at hand. Still, it had never been particularly pleasant to come back to an empty house. He smiled ruefully. Selina would be home soon enough, and then he'd be wishing he'd tackled the police application when he didn't have a toddler clamoring for his attention. Best to get started.

The standard application held no surprises for him. Name, address, date of birth, employment history—he'd rarely had to fill one of these out before, but he found it more tedious than onerous. It only took him a few minutes to complete, but it felt like longer. When he'd signed the last page, he took the PHQ questionnaire downstairs to the Cave typed in the url specified in the information packet, and logged in with the username and password that had been provided.

The first few questions were a rehash of the basic personal information he'd just filled out. His lips twitched at question 9.

**List and describe all Scars, Distinguishing Marks, Tattoos, etc., and where they are located.**

_All _his scars? Did the text box have a character limit? He rolled his eyes and started typing. He didn't run out of room.

Next he was asked to list dependants and family members. He hesitated. Dick was a given, of course. Tim gave him pause. He'd been Tim's legal guardian, but Tim was now over 18. "Former guardian" wasn't a family tie. He left Tim out for the time being. He frowned. Would listing Helena open up a can of worms? Probably. They'd want to know who the other parent was, what their current relationship was, and, from what Jim had told him, they'd probably want to interview Selina as a character reference. That would be problematic, considering that Catwoman was still wanted in connection with several unsolved crimes. He'd need to discuss how she felt about walking into GCPD headquarters before volunteering her name. As far as Helena was concerned... Bruce considered. From a purely legal standpoint, there was nothing to tie him to Helena. Safest not to mention anything about her for now. He moved on to the next section with a pang, as though denying the relationship on paper had been a repudiation of his true feelings for her. What was the next question?

**List five persons ****NOT RELATED**** to you and ****NOT FORMER EMPLOYEES**** who have known you at least FIVE YEARS**.

This was going to raise a few eyebrows. He smiled as he typed Jim's name. Tim's came next. Then he added, _Superman, Flash, Doctor Mid-Nite_. He filled in the JLA's contact information for the last three.

The questionnaire moved into the "yes-or-no" section.

**Have you ever been ordered to pay child support or alimony?** That was a "no."

**Have you ever been terminated or resigned in lieu of termination?** That was a bit trickier, given his current status. He hadn't _exactly _been terminated, but... But nothing, he realized. If he hadn't been terminated, then the answer was "no," end of discussion.

The questions continued:

**Have you ever been delinquent on income tax payments?**

**If yes, was it more than once?**

**Were you ever the subject of a military criminal investigation?**

**Has your license/privilege to drive, ever been Suspended or Revoked? (If "Yes," explain.)**

**As a driver, have you ever been involved in an accident where you left the scene without identifying yourself (hit& run)? If yes, please explain and give dates.**

He sighed. He'd never hit a person, but he'd caused quite a bit of property damage driving the Batmobile through plate-glass windows and the like. He thought about responding in the negative, but "hit and run" did apply to fixtures as well as to people. He brought up a new window on his monitor and started searching his case logs for the necessary information. At least, he'd always taken care to send adequate payment to cover the damages. They might take that into consideration.

**List each traffic accident that you have been involved in, whether your fault or not, as the driver of the vehicle.**

He winced. This was going to take a while...

* * *

When Dick approached the castle in Robinson Park, he found Ron Chester there ahead of him. "Okay," he said in a low tone. "Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?"

Chester glanced about nervously, as though expecting paparazzi to be lurking behind a nearby tree. Finally, he asked, "How's your... well, your father?"

Dick blinked. "He's doing better," he said carefully.

"I'm glad to hear that," Chester replied. "This... there've been some concerns."

Dick waited. "Okay..."

Chester lit a cigarette. "Have you spoken with him in the last couple of days?"

"Yeah, why?" When Chester hesitated again, Dick said, "Look, Mr. Chester, don't take this the wrong way, but I do a lot better when people just tell me what's on their mind. I mean," he smiled, "I'm a decent enough detective, I guess, but I'm no telepath."

Chester took another drag on the cigarette. "Has he mentioned anything about a restraining order?" The question came out so quickly that the words were nearly garbled.

Dick frowned. "No. No, he didn't. What's going on?"

Chester hunched forward. "That's... kind of a long story..."

* * *

Bruce clenched his jaw again and wondered why the rack and iron maiden evoked such horror in most people. He knew the answer: most people had never taken a PHQ. The questions seemed endless. He'd reached the multiple choice section by now.

**Approximately how often do you lose your temper?**

**Once per month or less**

**1-5 times per month**

**More than once per week**

**More than once per day**

He checked 'a,' reflecting that his experience today had very nearly made it 'b'.

**Have you ever attacked anyone in anger in the last 12 months?**

**Never**

**Once or twice**

**3-5 times**

**6 or more times**

He scowled, reminded himself that Joker counted, and checked 'b'. His face drooped as he read the next question:

**...Within the last 5 years?**

He wasn't sure what was more ludicrous: his thinking that he had a snowball's chance in hell of passing this thing, or Sawyer's conviction of same. Jim had to be wrong. This was an elaborate way of letting him know that there was no way that he would ever be able to put on the suit again with the GCPD's sanction.

His fury started to build. It didn't matter. It wasn't like it was going to lose him any more points off of this damned questionnaire—

Abruptly, the sneering face of the Personnel cop rose in his memory. _Knew you didn't have it in you. Knew you'd give up your delusions of being one of us once the going got a little tough. Knew..._

If he'd had heat vision, there would be two holes in the screen right now. Instead, he saw only the question hanging there, awaiting his input. "D." They already knew the answer to this one anyway. And while the most sensible thing to do was walk away, quitting simply wasn't in his nature.

Sawyer knew what was on the test and she still thought he could qualify, he reminded himself.

A memory surfaced from months earlier. He'd resolved to take his first step back to what he'd once been: he'd asked Dick to train him. Dick had responded by ordering him to do twenty push-ups, but that hadn't been the real test.

For the first time in hours, Bruce smiled. _The real test had been whether he was willing to take direction, or whether he planned to run roughshod as he had in the past._

It didn't make sense for Sawyer to set him up for a test he was bound to fail—unless that was never the test in the first place. She needed to know whether he was willing to play by the existing rules before she went about trying to bend them for him.

_She needed to know that she wasn't about to sanction another Brady cop._

Bruce stared at the question for another minute. He paused the program, got up, walked over to the exercise area, and sat cross-legged on the mat. He closed his eyes and began a basic relaxation technique. After five minutes, he felt his tension drain away.

Ten minutes later, he walked back to the computer and resumed the questionnaire.

* * *

Dick heard Ron Chester out without interruption. When the VP had finished, Dick nodded slowly. "I appreciate your telling me. Thanks." He took a breath. "Okay. So, Paxton's still waiting to hear from you about the setup?"

Chester nodded. "Obviously, I'd like to turn him down, but I'm a bit concerned about retaliation."

"I hear you." He paused for a beat. "Call him. Tell him you'll keep the meeting."

"Wh-what?"

"Call him. Or call her to make sure that there _is_ a meeting, and then call him."

The VP swallowed hard. "And then?"

"You go to the meeting, I guess." He smiled, but there was something about that smile that made Chester take an involuntary step backwards. "Leave the rest to me..."


	5. Chapter 4: Interrogation Strategies

Trigger warning for mild ableism.

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to PJ for help with police procedures. Thanks to Elle and Xenith for free legal advice!

A/N: Commissioner Loeb is a canon character from Batman: Year One.

A/N: Interrogation lyrics performed by Waterdown on their _Files You Have on Me_ album (Victory 2003).

_I'm not exactly the most wanted criminal  
no I'm not I wasn't and I'll never be  
and may I question  
your interrogation strategies_

_-Waterdown, Interrogation_

**Chapter 4—Interrogation Strategies**

Ron lit another cigarette, his second today. He'd thought he'd kicked the habit six months ago, but the events of the last few days had proven otherwise. He watched Grayson's retreating back as the younger man moved briskly away.

He swallowed hard. Grayson had been polite, even friendly. But there had been something about the look on his face that warned Ron not to mistake him for a pushover. He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and mopped his brow. Then he went back to his car, pulled out his cell phone and called Paxton. "Les," he said when Paxton picked up, "are you sure you want to go this route? If it backfires, the repercussions are going to be a lot worse than they would have been if we'd just dropped the whole thing."

"Then you'll have to make sure it doesn't backfire," Paxton said calmly. "If Wayne tries to take back the company, it could be a disaster. I don't think he had the mental competence for it _before_ his arrest, much less now."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Come on... he was Batman! He had to have something going on upstairs."

Paxton laughed. "Batman? Until the mob war, I didn't think there was any such person. After that..." His voice hardened. "If it was Wayne all along, I'm not surprised that he was as incompetent as a cape as he was as a CEO."

"Incompetent? Les, are you—?"

Paxton cut him off. "Listen to me, Ron. Wayne was an idiot who paraded around in a costume and got in the way of legitimate law enforcement. He was a blundering amateur who must have done more harm than good. And when he finally, somehow, won them over and got them to follow his lead, he got thirty of them killed. I think that our shareholders are going to take a very dim view of a... a... damned _lunatic_ at the corporate helm. We're all better off without him. Now, can I count on you?"

Ron gave a mental shrug. He'd done what he could to talk Paxton out it. "You know you can, Les. When did you have in mind?"

"You've been driving her to her second job for a little while, now. Does she work every night?"

"Every weeknight."

"See if you can set something up for Saturday evening, then. I'll contact one of my attorneys and see if he can be present at the meeting. I suppose," he continued sourly, "Ms. Ryerson will need some representation at that hearing."

That, at least, was a relief. "I'll sound her out when I pick her up tonight."

"Let me know if you hit any further snags," Paxton ordered. "Call me when you have her answer." The line went dead.

Ron took a deep breath. Then he picked up the phone again and sent a two-word text to Grayson's cell: Saturday night.

* * *

Selina found Bruce in the cave, staring at the computer screen. "How's it going?" she asked.

Bruce sighed. "I've been providing honest answers," he said. "Unless you'd prefer one of them, I'd suggest rescinding your question."

"That bad?"

The elevator doors parted behind them to admit Jim, as Bruce added, "Dick never mentioned anything quite this invasive when he applied to the academy."

"Were you even paying attention when he talked about it?" Selina asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course," Bruce replied. "I was still hoping I could convince him to quit."

Jim laughed. "I can't _think_ why he wouldn't have brought it up then," he said. His voice turned serious, although his smile remained. "Actually, I can. Police vetting procedures really got tough only in the last ten years or so, and the changes didn't all happen everywhere at the same time." He made a face. "Bludhaven actually had the dubious honor of being the last city in the country to adopt the stricter processes—I think I read something about that right around the time I left for Europe." He shrugged. "Dick just happened to sign up a year or two before they finally got with the program."

Bruce sighed. "It's to be expected. On the whole, his luck has been better than mine."

"Hold on a second," Jim held up a hand for emphasis. "Just because he had it a little easi_er _doesn't mean he had it easy. What I went through as a rookie was pretty damned intense, and it would have been worse when it was Dick's turn. Even if it wasn't quite the ninth level of Hell it is today, that doesn't mean it wasn't as insulting and invasive as all get out, and I have a hard time calling anyone who went through some form of it 'lucky'."

Bruce let out a slow breath. "At least now I understand why the officer in personnel mentioned that he'd never had to take the test. I was wondering."

"What? Whether there was more than one job track and Sawyer was arbitrarily pointing you down a harder road?" He shook his head. "They grandfathered in the officers accepted under the old rules, but all new candidates go through the grilling. I'll admit that non-sworns aren't roasted for quite as long, but somehow, I don't think you'd be satisfied stuck behind a desk."

Bruce frowned. "Non-sworns?" He felt like he should know this one, but then he'd never really paid much attention to the different category types within the GCPD. His main interactions had been with Jim and, at times, with whichever officers happened to be on-hand when he turned a collar over to them.

"Police staff who don't wear badges and aren't classed as peace officers. In other words, civilians who work for the department. They aren't academy-trained, and most of them get spared the polygraph, but they still get grilled. And even some non-sworns go through what you're facing now, because if they handle evidence or other sensitive information, we need to know that they can keep their integrity intact."

While Bruce remained silent, Jim added, "Look. It's your call. It always is. But the way I see it, if you're putting yourself through this level of torture anyway, then you might as well go for the whole thing and qualify for what you absolutely want down the road." He gave Bruce a meaningful look. "And short-term, well, I doubt you want to go through all of this just to end up working parking enforcement, do you?"

Bruce shot him an expression of pure horror.

"That's what I figured. So." He sat down. "Besides being insultingly invasive, how _are_ you finding the questionnaire?"

Bruce hesitated. "I... may have hit a snag with the full disclosure," he admitted, glancing briefly at Selina. "They're going to want to know about any current or past... personal relationships." He looked at Jim. "You said that I could expect to have everyone I know be invited downtown for an interview."

"Well, in some cases, they'll visit," Jim said, "but yes."

Bruce looked at Selina. "How... comfortable would you be with that process? I..." He looked away. "I understand if you'd prefer to leave temporarily. Until the GCPD makes their decision."

Selina shook her head. "Don't you think I've done enough of that?" She smiled. "Besides, I don't think they're going to handcuff me to a chair and take turns interrogating me—that's more your kids' style."

"What?" Jim frowned.

Bruce coughed. "It was after Rich shot you. We needed answers quickly and," he looked back to Selina, "you weren't in the mood to provide them." He swallowed. "And my judgment was impaired or I would have tried other methods."

"You mean like _asking_ me?"

Bruce looked away. "That might be a wiser tactic to use in the future, yes." He took another breath. "Or right now, for that matter. _Are_ you willing to speak with the backgrounder?" He leaned forward. "Is it _safe_?"

"Oh, I can keep my claws sheathed," Selina grinned. "He'll be fine." She laughed. "Okay, okay. Working with the Birds has its advantages. If anyone tries to run my prints, it'll come up 'no match found' unless I _want_ a match to come up."

"But when they ask whether I've had dealings with known criminals," Bruce said, "obviously, I'm going to need to mention my... people, since vigilantism falls under that rubric. However..."

"Ah," Selina smiled. "No worries on that front. I got it taken care of months ago. Why don't you run a check on Catwoman in the criminal databases right now?"

Puzzled, Bruce obeyed. His eyes slid over the record and then snapped back. "_Selma_ Kyle?"

Selina burst out laughing again. "It seems like some idiot booking clerk made an error that wreaked havoc with my life. Selina. Selma. I guess the handwriting on the original papers was a little hard to read. Anyway," she continued innocently, "I had no _clue_ who this 'Selma' person was, until I went to get my license renewed and nearly got arrested, and then... oh boy did I raise a stink! Go on. Run a check on 'Selina Kyle' now and see what comes up. You should have a lot of nasty letters to the authorities demanding that they fix their records." Her smile grew wider. "Bottom line: Selina Kyle has no criminal record. As far as the authorities are concerned, she's _not_ Catwoman; that would be this Selma character... And I can assure you, Bruce my dear, that Catwoman has no intention of _ever _getting caught."

Bruce typed in the necessary instructions. After a moment, he looked back at her. "Intentions aren't everything. That being said, this does make things simpler."

Jim cleared his throat. "So when they ask you point-blank about whether you've ever had dealings with criminals and not turned them in..."

Bruce looked from Jim to Selina, and gave an exaggerated shrug. "Sometimes, despite my efforts to bring Catwoman to justice, she managed to give me the slip. That's not even a lie." He hesitated. "About Helena... I would rather it not be recorded that she's my daughter. For her safety."

"Yeah, if some hacker found that bit of intel," Selina swallowed hard. "I already know how you feel about her, Bruce. I'm not about to pick a fight with you over sensible precautions."

Bruce looked at Jim. "Well?"

Jim sighed. "Well," he said reluctantly, "if there's no proof of criminal activity, there's no use bringing it up. It's not like the DA's office would want to move on it without evidence." He looked down. "That's probably your best defense if they start needling you on that score: because of the line you were walking, you didn't want to attack anyone unless you were _positive_ that you were chasing the right person." His expression hardened. "But I'm telling you, Bruce—assume that when they're asking you invasive questions, nine times out of ten, they've got the answer in front of them and they just want to see if you're going be honest about it."

"I know." Bruce sighed heavily. "Thanks." He frowned. "I don't seem to be able to go back and change my references on the online form."

"Just mention it at the interview," Jim advised. "But be prepared to be asked in detail about how serious you two are."

"Oh?" Selina asked archly. "Maybe we should get our stories straight, then. How serious are we?"

Bruce gave her a hard look which quickly turned to a rueful smile. "Serious enough that when you needed a place to stay after one of my old enemies threatened you—which is essentially what happened—you came to me and you've been staying here for a few weeks." He reached for the glass of water behind him and took a sip.

"Ah," Jim said. "And are you two sleeping together?"

Bruce spat water over the monitor. "I beg your pardon?" He sputtered as Selina laughed.

"Hey. The backgrounder is going to ask it."

"Oh, for..." Bruce grabbed for the napkin and began mopping the screen. "That's none of his damned business."

"Well, if you tell him that, it's an automatic disqualification," Jim shot back. "I told you this was going to be invasive. I wasn't kidding. _Nothing_ is off-limits. Nothing is sacred." He leaned in closer to Bruce. "And if _you_ were conducting this kind of investigation, would you even question whether you were going to look into this stuff?"

"I..." Bruce shook his head helplessly. "Fine. I'll anticipate the question."

"We both will," Selina said.

Bruce took a deep breath, turned back to the screen, answered the question that he'd been looking at before and blinked. "I believe," he said slowly, "that I may finally be done with this." He typed the instructions quickly and submitted the file. Then he reached for the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Selina asked.

Bruce reached for a post-it note with a number scrawled on it. "The background investigator. He said to call as soon as I'd finished."

"That fast?" Selina blinked.

Bruce had his mouth open to reply when a voice came on the other end of the line. "Yes, am I speaking with Detective Chiarello?" His voice was firm and businesslike, with none of Batman's gravel or 'Brucie's' polite befuddlement. He pulled his focus back to the phone, but not before he caught the faint smile of approval on Jim's face. "Detective, this is Bruce Wayne. You'd said to get in touch with you—yes, I've just submitted it. Yes, I'll hold."

In response to their questioning looks, Bruce covered the mouthpiece. "He's just making sure he's got—Yes, Detective, I'm here. No... What? Um... yes. Yes I... I suppose I can. I'll see you... shortly."

He ended the call looking uncharacteristically flustered.

"What?" Selina asked.

Bruce looked from her to Jim, and then back to the phone. "He wants me to come in for the interview at six."

"Tonight?"

Bruce nodded. "And since that means going out in rush hour traffic," _for the second time today, _he added mentally, "I need to leave now."

Selina wrapped her arms around his neck. "Good luck, handsome," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Now get out of here."

"Better change first," Jim interjected. "You're hardly dressed for a job interview."

"Noted," Bruce acknowledged, hugging Selina back. Then he turned and headed upstairs.

Selina sighed. "I guess I'd better get supper on before Helena wakes up from her nap. Want to come keep me company?"

Jim shook his head. "I think I'm going to call my daughter. I have a few things to discuss with her."

* * *

Sitting in her monitor womb, Oracle gulped. She hadn't _meant_ to eavesdrop that long; she'd only been wondering how Bruce was making out with the questionnaire.

Her comm-link buzzed. "Hi, Dinah."

"I just thought you might want to know," Black Canary said breathlessly, "I'm meeting with the backgrounder tomorrow at nine."

"That's... great," Barbara smiled. "Really great."

"Babs? Is something wrong?"

Barbara sighed. "Oh... nothing the Federal Witness Protection Program couldn't cure..."

* * *

Back at GCPD, Bruce gave his name to the receptionist at the main desk and took a seat in the waiting area. It was only a moment or two before a trim man with a shaved head and a neat salt-and-pepper mustache, who appeared to be a few years younger than Jim came out. "Mr. Wayne? Detective Marcio Chiarello. If you'll follow me, please."

"Hey, Maury," one of the desk clerks said.

"Hey yourself, Gwen." He turned back to Bruce. "This way."

Bruce followed the detective upstairs, down the hall past the commissioner's office, and into a side office with no nameplate outside the door. There wasn't much in the room beyond a desk, two chairs, and a machine he recognized at a glance.

"I trust you have no objection to taking a polygraph?" Chiarello asked.

"Not at all." Bruce hesitated. "I know that you're aware that they can be inaccurate," he said.

"How about you let us worry about that?" Chiarello said. "The polygraph is just one of the tools we use."

"I understand," Bruce said, taking his seat. "I'd like to mention though, that Wonder Woman has a more accurate method, if you'd like to take advantage."

"Nothing doing," Chiarello said, taking his own chair. "We're bending enough regulations for you as it is." He frowned. "Okay. Here's how the process works from this point on. I'm going to go over your answers from the PHQ, as well as some other things that came up during my investigations. This will probably take a couple of hours. Usually, we wouldn't use the polygraph unless you qualified for a second interview, but seeing as the commissioner's asked me to fast-track this, we're rolling two sessions into one. We're also going to be speaking to some of the people who know you. You do realize that although you have provided references, we're not in any way restricted to calling them alone, correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay. _If_ everything checks out, you'll get a call in a couple of days asking you to come down for a psych evaluation. Your scores and results will then pass to committee, and if they approve you, you're good for the academy."

Bruce frowned. "I was told I could bypass that if I passed the final examinations."

Chiarello shrugged. "That's between you and the commissioner, Mr. Wayne. Frankly," he got up and walked over to the polygraph machine, "I wouldn't worry about those examinations until _I'm _done with you." He held up two long rubber tubes. "Okay, I guess you know the drill. These go around your chest and abdomen to measure your respiration."

Bruce nodded and offered no resistance as Chiarello attached the tubes, placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm, and attached galvanometers to his fingers. Satisfied, he walked back to the machine and flipped a few switches. A low buzz filled the room.

Chiarello returned to his desk. "Right. Let's get started. I'm going to ask you a few basic questions and I want you to answer truthfully. Will you state your name for the record?"

"Bruce Wayne."

"What is your address?"

"1007 Mountain Drive, Bristol."

"What is your date of birth?"

Bruce gave it.

"All right. Now, I'm going to repeat those questions and I want you to lie to me..."

* * *

"Did you know she's got a rap sheet?"

Paxton frowned and gripped the telephone a bit tighter. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Petty vandalism, property damage, creating public disturbances... Not to mention last summer when she spent a day in jail on contempt charges."

That brought him up short. "Why wasn't I informed?" He demanded.

His lawyer laughed harshly. "Did you even check her out? Les, not every crime makes the papers. If they did, you'd read about a lot more shoplifters and DUIs. I'm not saying I can't win the case, but this isn't going to be the cakewalk you made it sound like when we spoke earlier. Especially not once Wayne launches a countersuit."

Paxton clenched his other hand into a fist. "Do everything in your power, Morton," he gritted. "Earn your retainer's fee."

"I will," Morton replied, stung. "But unless there's some sort of evidence on her side that would make this thing more than 'her word against his,' I don't see it ending well. Have a good evening, Lester."

Paxton slammed the phone down on the table. Then he picked it up again and hit a speed-dial button. "Ron. Have you set up a—oh, you have? Saturday evening at seven? Excellent. I'll complete the arrangements on my end. Just make sure you have a working camera." He hung up.

"Excellent," he whispered with just a bit less self-assurance than usual. It was still going to work out, he told himself. Everything was _still_ on track.

* * *

Bruce was in Hell. He was sure of it. One of his old foes had recognized him walking into GCPD headquarters and shot him on the spot and he was going to spend the rest of eternity answering these questions. And he'd wondered what would be left to ask after he'd completed the PHQ. Chiarello was using those as a starting point.

He'd had an eventful life. He knew that. But going over it now, piece by piece, was agonizing. His natural reaction to interrogation was to stay silent and glare. Suppressing that instinct was taking its toll. He was actually relieved that Jim had convinced him not to try to fool the polygraph. With the stress he was feeling, Bruce wasn't positive he could have pulled it off.

Chiarello kept firing off questions.

Bruce struggled to not sound defensive as he replied. Yes, he had been arrested four times. Twice for murder, once for treason, and once for vigilantism. True he'd been exonerated on the first three counts and found not criminally responsible on the fourth. It still didn't sound good. He reminded himself that it wasn't supposed to sound _good_; it was supposed to be truthful.

"Regardless of who was at fault," Chiarello began again, "have you ever had a physical altercation with anyone not mentioned on the PHQ? Or... you know what? Let me rephrase. Not counting the time you spent in Arkham, how many days have gone by in the last...um... decade or so, when you _haven't_ had a physical altercation with someone?"

Bruce fought back a surge of irritation with a basic meditation technique. _He's trying to see if you have a volatile temper. Relax. Don't let him rile you. _"Not many," he admitted. "I gauged the amount of force to use on a hostile based on the amount of force that the hostile was attempting to use against me. Someone attempting to injure or kill me was injured in turn. Someone who ran, I chased to apprehend but used minimal force."

"Were you aware that minimal force is still assault?"

"Yes." He wondered how much remorse he should be coaxing into his voice.

Chiarello stared down his nose at him. "Hope you aren't under the impression we'll look the other way if something like that happens now," he said. "We've come a long way since Loeb's administration. Ever taken anything from a former employer or anyone else without permission? That includes stuff like office supplies, password codes, evidence from a crime scene..."

Bruce employed a more advanced relaxation technique. "Yes."

"All those billions coming to you from Mommy and Daddy's will and you still found it necessary to steal."

_I suppose I COULD have bribed an officer to give me the intel I needed. It's not like I didn't know who the crooked cops were._

Aloud, he said, "At times, I believed that it _was_ necessary, yes."

Chiarello grunted and moved on through the questions. Bruce kept his voice level as he replied. _They already know the truth, he kept reminding himself. Sawyer wouldn't be wasting your time subjecting you to this if she meant to automatically disqualify you. None of this puts you in a good light. That is the POINT. If you'll lie to protect yourself now, they have every reason to expect you'll lie to protect yourself later. Relax. Don't let the questions get to you. Relax..._

"When and where was the last time you were present when others were using illegal drugs?"

Bruce thought back. "It was within a week of my arrest. I'm... sorry. I don't have the precise date. I can tell you that I left the perpetrators... wait. I don't know if they were _using_ the drugs. The Bowery Barons had approximately 25 kilos of crack-cocaine in their possession that they intended to sell on the street. I left them tied up in a garage on Logerquist after dropping off the evidence with the first patrol car I spotted. I believe that the officer I spoke to was... Manapul."

"Tony Manapul?" Chiarello grunted. "I know him. I'll see if he remembers. So the last time you saw anyone using was about three years ago?"

"Yes."

"Let's move on, then. Have you ever sold, bought, delivered, manufactured, grown, produced, or injected any controlled substance?"

Bruce nodded. "Yes. Between my night activities and my training—not to mention the time that I was shot on the courthouse steps when I was on trial for treason, I've had occasion to use a number of prescription painkillers. These have included opiates." He frowned. "Medication was prescribed to me at Arkham. I believe that some of it might have been on the list of controlled substances. Unfortunately, I don't recall the specific drugs involved. Also, I don't know whether you've received my medical records from immediately before my transfer to Arkham, but I was given a dose of Desoxyn without my knowledge or consent."

"It's here," Chiarello nodded. "My fault. That one's phrased a bit broadly. Let me ask you this: apart from the Desoxyn, have you taken any controlled substances that weren't prescribed to you by a doctor?"

"No." Was it his imagination, or had Chiarello begun to thaw, just a little?

"How about steroids?"

Bruce sighed. He couldn't say Jim hadn't warned him about this one. "Over fifteen years ago. Do you want the details?"

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Go for it."

* * *

"Seriously?"

The younger cop poured himself another cup of coffee from the urn. "Yup. Gwen saw him come in. He's up with Chiarello now."

A third officer made a face. "Better him than us."

Laughter. Agreement.

"Say," the younger cop ventured, "you think he'll pass?"

"Do I think he'll pass?" a fourth cop drawled. "Only if he gets to rewrite the rulebook so we do things his way—and yours truly isn't putting on no cape an' tights!"

More laughter.

"Besides, you know what happened the last time people trusted him to have their backs. Who d'you think's gonna want to ride with him in a squad car?"

"I would," the younger cop said. "Seriously." As the others laughed, he repeated, "I would!"

"So would I," said the first officer.

"You, Kyle? Wasn't your partner one of the twenty-eight?"

"Yeah, he was. Ever held a command in a war zone, Matt? Because I have. And let me tell you something about that. Sometimes you don't have all the facts you need to make an informed decision, but you still have to give the orders based on what facts you do have. Yeah, he commandeered the force, but did you ever stop and think why we all followed him?"

Silence.

"It's because he had a record over sixteen years strong for getting the job done. Now it's a damned shame that we lost a lot of good people that day, but if he'd been one of ours, there would have been an inquiry, probably some extended leave time, and then he'd have been back in the squad room. Well," he glanced up at the ceiling, rolling his eyes, "he's been 'away' for a couple of years, and seeing as the commish pulled Chiarello out of IA to handle his backgrounding, I'd say he's getting that inquiry—better late than never. Bottom line, I think the department would have to be run by idiots not to jump at the chance to have him onboard. And if they're looking for volunteers to partner up with him, I'm sticking my name in the hat."

"Until he gets you killed, Robbins."

"Funny. I could've _sworn_ all those mobsters had something to do with that bloodbath." A sigh. "Anyway, _ladies_, I'm heading back to finish my paperwork." He made a face. "Maybe if I do land myself that rookie, I can fob some of those reports off on him."

* * *

Chiarello wasn't thawing after all. His questions just kept coming. It was a battle of wills now. The backgrounder seemed to be waiting for him to make a misstep or tear off the electrodes and storm off in a huff. Bruce couldn't deny he was tempted, but he was also damned if he was going to hand him that victory.

"Since you were fourteenyears old, have you ever shoplifted anything?"

_Shoplifted? _"No."

"Have you ever stolen money from a place where you work?"

_Not money. _"No."

"Have you ever taken a motor vehicle without the owner's permission?"

"Yes. May I explain?"

Chiarello nodded. "Go ahead."

"I was in pursuit of Joker. One of his goons got a lucky shot and took out the Batmobile's front tire. He'd threatened to set off a Smilex grenade in an elementary school if his demands weren't met. I couldn't risk losing him. A motorcyclist was coming by. He had to slow down to get around the Batmobile. I intercepted, unseated him, and took off after Joker on the motorcycle."

"You catch him?"

"Yes."

"Was the bike okay?"

"No. I tracked down the owner and had a new one delivered to his front door with my apologies."

Chiarello's expression didn't change. "Ever stolen a credit card?"

"No."

"Ever been ashamed of taking something from anyone?"

"Yes."

"Ever received stolen property?"

"Yes, as part of a sting operation."

"Aw, you didn't ask if you could elaborate that time," Chiarello smirked. "Ever obtained property under false pretences?"

"Yes. May I clarify?" He managed not to spit the words out.

"Sure, go for it."

"It was another sting operation. I was working closely with then-Commissioner Gordon at the time."

"Ah." Chiarello made a notation on his pad. "Ever filed a false insurance claim?"

"No."

"Are you deliberately withholding information from me about something you have stolen?"

"No."

There was a rustle as Chiarello turned over a page. "Have you ever struck another person—outside of play, athletic competition, or scope of employment—since the age of eighteen?"

Bruce sighed. He hadn't liked this section on the online form, and he wasn't going to like it now. "Yes."

"Have you ever struck a child which resulted in injury or bruising?"

"May I explain?"

"Oh, I think you'd better."

Bruce sighed. "If we're defining 'child' as 'minor,' I have used physical force against gang members. I've tried to use less force when my opponents were clearly underage, but if they were armed, I defended myself."

"And if we're talking a bona fide child?"

"I've trained my partners. There were a few occasions when I misjudged their moves and a blow which I expected them to counter... connected."

"So, accidental?"

"Yes, but accidental or deliberate, bruises were caused." Bruce took a deep breath.

"Have you ever unlawfully taken the life of another human being?"

He exhaled. "No."

The interrogation continued.

* * *

"So, under the circumstances," Dick was saying, "I don't think going there in costume is the brightest move. I'd go in civvies, but I have no way of knowing which road he's going to be taking to enter Battergate."

The man on the other end of the video chat nodded soberly as he ran a hand through close-cropped blond hair. "So you need someone who can cover all potential entry points," he said, catching on.

"Plus the fact that you're a police officer helps. Hopefully, if GCPD spots you, they'll think you're one of theirs."

Barry Allen frowned. "I could do it like that," he admitted, "but there might be an easier way. I'm off-duty now, and I can't access the KPD records remotely, but can you check on your end whether there are any open files that could conceivably fall under joint jurisdiction? Any Gotham-Keystone connections at all?"

Dick considered. "Let me look into that. You have an idea?"

Barry nodded. "I've done reserve officer training. It's encouraged for criminologists. And KPD heartily endorses the idea of officers volunteering in other jurisdictions to get a feel for how other departments handle things. The main issue," he said seriously, "is timing. You want me to be in Gotham three days from now. For that, I need to present them with some reason like..." he shrugged, "I don't know... someone we've been trying to collar for a while who's lying low in Gotham. Or, someone from Gotham who's just become a Keystone problem, and we're hoping a chat with some his old contacts might furnish a few leads." He smiled. "Give me something like that, and I might be able to get the paperwork approved by noon tomorrow."

Dick grinned back. "On it."

* * *

Chiarello poured himself a glass of water. "Want some?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head.

"Are you currently in a relationship?"

Bruce frowned. "That's not... clear. May I explain?"

"Go ahead."

Bruce took a breath. "Last month," he said, "a woman I had dated before my arrest contacted me. One of my old foes had surprised her at her apartment. Because of my circumstances, my home security system is formidable. She's been staying with me for nearly four weeks. I'm not sure whether to call that a 'relationship' or whether it falls under 'friendship'."

"Mmm. Are you sleeping with her?"

Jim had been right. "No."

"When was the last time you slept with her?"

Bruce's eyes went flat. "Three years ago."

"Were you sleeping with anyone else at the time?"

_Oh, for crying out loud!_ "No."

"Ever had a threesome?"

"WHAT?"

Chiarello leaned forward, clearly enjoying himself. "Have... you... ever had... a... threesome... with or without her?"

Bruce glowered. "No."

"How about with an animal?"

"Oh for... no! No."

"Have you ever paid for sex?"

"No."

"Have you ever _been_ paid for sex?"

"I've been offered payment not to contradict a starlet who thought that claiming she'd had sex with me would somehow give her an edge at an upcoming audition."

"Did you take the payment?"

"No. I ignored the story." His lips twitched. "Apparently, the media did too... at least, her career doesn't appear to have gone anywhere."

"Who was she... just out of curiosity?"

Bruce frowned. "Myra... something. Fontaine? Fontana?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It was over ten years ago." _Maria Delafontaine, but that one's really none of your business._

Chiarello shrugged. "No big deal. "Have you ever destroyed or damaged property?"

"Yes." _And you asked me that already._

"Have you ever been the subject of a restraining order?"

Bruce sighed. "I am at present."

Chiarello chuckled. "Yeah, I saw. Any others?"

"No."

"Ever tortured or abused an animal or been present when others did?"

"I was present," Bruce nodded. "And I put a stop to it."

"Are you currently under investigation by any law enforcement agency concerning any alleged violation of the law?"

Bruce sighed. "To the best of my knowledge, no."

"Have you committed or taken part in any crime that you were not punished for?"

"That depends on how you view the time I spent at Arkham," Bruce replied. "I was found to be not _criminally _responsible for my actions; however I'm not certain whether you would consider my two years there to be punishment." _If you don't, I may argue the point._

"Ever thought of committing a crime you didn't carry out?"

_Who doesn't? Admit it: you threw this one in to see if anyone answering 'no' can fool a polygraph. _"Yes."

"Would you have any reason to be concerned about an investigation into your honesty?"

"Yes. May I explain?"

Chiarello shrugged. "Be my guest."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Having a secret identity has its... difficulties. ... It's fair to say that I told a number of untruths to safeguard my activities. So, if you were to contact old friends and acquaintances whom I fobbed off with one excuse or another while I was trying to find a secluded place to change into costume to answer the Signal—" he sighed, "particularly women with whom I broke dates in order to pursue a criminal investigation—it's fair to say that the picture they would paint for you would be rather bleak on that front."

"My heart bleeds for you. Have you ever entered or remained on the property of another, knowing you did not have permission of the owner to do so?"

"Yes."

"Right now, are you thinking about a specific crime that you have committed that you are intentionally withholding?"

"No."

Chiarello laced his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head as he leaned back. "Okay," he said, letting out a breath, "we're done. Let me get those things off you."

Bruce exhaled too.

"You eaten?"

Bruce blinked. He was about to say that he wasn't hungry, until he remembered that the polygraph was still on. "No."

"Grab your coat," Chiarello ordered. "We'll head over to Finnegan's. My treat."

Bruce started to shake his head. "No, thanks."

"Why? You'd rather have _filet mignon_ or pheasant under glass? Look, if you're hoping to rub elbows with the rest of us working stiffs, you can have a burger and a couple of beers like everyone else. That's if you still think you've got a chance at _being_ one of us." He reached over and unfastened the galvanometers. "C'mon. If we hurry, we can get stools at the counter, and you can watch while something other than you gets grilled."

Bruce clenched his jaw. Was this also part of the interview process, he wondered? Hungry as he was, the last thing he wanted to do was go to dinner with the man who had spent the last couple of hours tormenting him—particularly since he suspected that this was going to be another test. But if dinner with the backgrounder was part of the vetting, he knew he had no choice. He'd come too far now to walk away. "Fine."


	6. Chapter 5: Testimonies

_Standing here. I can look you in the eyes.  
And without a question. I can testify._

—_M. Jason Greene, Clay Walker: You're My Witness_

A/N: According to _The Daily Planet Guide to Gotham City_, the Metropolis Monarchs relocated to Gotham after the No Man's Land.

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta.

A/N: "You're My Witness" written by M. Jason Greene and Clay Walker. Recorded by Clay Walker on his _Fall_ album (Asylum-Curb, 2007).

A/N: Officer Kyle Robbins is an OC who last appeared in _Lost to the Night_.

**Chapter 5: Testimonies**

Dick called Barry nearly an hour later. "Calvin Monroe."

Barry frowned. "Who?"

"He used to work for the Roman, back in the day," Dick explained. "After Batman took out the bulk of that family, Monroe fell off the radar. Except that according to a paper trail that he hasn't tried hard enough to hide," Dick transmitted the electronic file with a grin, "he seems to be your headache right now."

Barry smiled back. "I figured you'd find an angle. Well... this is good for us," his smile dropped away, "but lousy for Keystone. The Roman, you say?" He shook his head frowning. "The name doesn't ring any bells for me—not at all." He sighed. "And police files only tell part of the story," he added. His frown changed to a scowl. "There are a lot of missing details in this dossier. Almost like they were being deliberately held back. Do you figure this... Roman was making payoffs?"

Dick nodded. "That went on a lot before Gordon took over. Bruce had to work extra hard to find enough evidence for the DA's office to even think about building a case."

Barry sighed. "Well, then," he said slowly, "I guess if I can't find all the facts in the official records, it looks like I've got no choice but to come to Gotham and see if I can talk to some of the veteran officers who were around at that time. Ever since we got rid of the Combine, there hasn't been much organized crime in Keystone, period," he added. "Which means that we're a bit rusty on some of our procedures." His blue eyes opened wide as he smiled. "Frankly, it wouldn't hurt to get some hands-on experience in a city that does have a mob presence. I think I should probably run that idea by my supervisors," he added innocently. "What do you think?"

Dick laughed. "Let me know when you've got everything set up. The city's changed a lot since the last time you were here. I'll see if Bruce and I can give you the grand tour."

* * *

Notwithstanding Chiarello's jab at haute cuisine, Bruce had rarely been one to turn up his nose at a burger. His father had never been much for turning on the barbecue. That was probably part of the reason that he enjoyed them. Hamburgers and pizza were two foods that didn't trigger memories of happier times. There had been a couple of years in his boyhood when he had practically lived on them—much to Alfred's dismay.

He'd grown up, of course. He'd travelled to countries where hamburgers took a distant back seat to rice, satays, curries, and kebabs. And in the interest of keeping up his socialite image, he'd exchanged fast food for gourmet cuisine—until Dick came into his life, of course. Even Alfred had agreed that man didn't live on_ vichysoisse_ alone.

No, Bruce had no objection to the dinner menu—only to the company. He supposed that this was one of the differences between being interrogated as a potential new hire versus being interrogated as a suspect: suspects weren't expected to dine with their interrogators after the interview. For the briefest instant, as he followed Chiarello to the underground parking garage, he wondered whether there was some way he could frame himself for something relatively minor—just to get out of dinner. Almost at once, he realized that it wouldn't work. Even if he could come up with something in the next two minutes, all he'd probably end up doing would be to disqualify himself entirely from the proceedings.

By now, that was unacceptable. He'd passed a certain point in his thought processes that took walking away off of his list of options. After all the stress he'd subjected himself to, he wasn't about to withdraw and let his efforts go to waste. No, he was in this for the long haul now.

He wondered whether this meal wasn't part of the personality assessment. Did Chiarello mean to ply him with beers to verify whether he had a drinking problem? He knew that some potential employers fell back on that tactic, although he'd never countenanced it at WE. Perhaps it was a test to see how comfortable he was rubbing shoulders with his (hopefully) future colleagues after hours. After all, if most officers stopped by Finnegan's when their shifts were over, they'd likely expect Bruce to not only join them, but to fit in. He gave a mental sigh. He'd endured similar situations with the League, also.

"We'll take my car," Chiarello said, interrupting his thoughts as he gestured toward a bluish-gray Chevy that needed a paintjob. "Hop in."

Bruce obeyed without comment.

"Suppose you came in a Ferrari or a Jag?"

"Town Car," Bruce returned shortly.

"Oh, excuse me," Chiarello said. "Finnegan's is for working stiffs. Park a Town Car nearby and, if you're lucky, you won't come back to find it's been keyed. Bet you've got a stereo system in there?"

_Police band radio, actually. _"Ummm..."

"Yeah, you don't want to drive it where we're going. The bar's fine; the neighborhood? Ehhh..." He put his key in the ignition. "Don't forget to buckle up. I'd hate to have to cite myself," he said, chuckling a little at his own joke.

Bruce resigned himself to the drive and to his new companion.

* * *

"Sharon Ryerson is..." Commissioner Sawyer caught herself. "Well... I don't anticipate that the restraining order will hold up, assuming that Mr. Wayne contests it." She frowned. "Which I would advise him to do, if he's still intent on going through the program after this evening."

Under the cowl, Dick raised his eyebrows. "Is something wrong?"

Sawyer shook her head. "I won't be able to answer that until I see his assessment scores. I've done everything I can for him," she said quietly. "But his acceptance to the Academy isn't a formality. I'm... aware of the position I put him in. If he means to blow the vetting process, it's very possible for him to fail."

"How about if he gives it his best shot?" Dick asked. "Is it a rubber stamp?"

"No, it's not." Sawyer moved away from the window and gestured to Dick to step inside. He followed her as she returned to her desk and sat down. "There are certain allowances we can—and do—make for special circumstances. Officers who left the force to pursue other career plans and subsequently return... ex-military personnel... When you spend years dealing with the crap that nobody else wants to deal with, it changes you. It's changed him; it must have." She took a deep breath. "What I need to know—what the backgrounder needs to know—is how deep those changes run. Whether he wants to carry one or not, if he passes the examinations, we're going to be handing him a loaded gun and sanctioning him to use it. We need to know that we can trust him not to _mis_use it—and don't go telling me he'd never do it," she said, holding up a warning hand as Dick opened his mouth to protest. "Put any person under enough pressure and they'll snap and do something you'd never have believed possible. It takes about a second to pull a trigger and once it's done, there's no taking it back. And I think we both know that no matter how stable he seems right now, there are always going to be some... concerned parties... who'll hold Arkham against him."

Dick nodded reluctantly. "So..."

"So, one of my best backgrounders actually transferred into Internal Affairs last year. I've pulled him back out for this. Maury's seen it all. He has experience both in doing background investigations and in questioning seasoned officers. He'll get the whole picture." She smiled wearily. "Moreover, he won't compromise his principles, and anyone who knows him knows that. We all know the outcome I'm hoping for, but if he doesn't think your mentor qualifies, then regardless of my feelings in this matter, Mr. Wayne will not pass. If Maury passes him, then..." She sighed. "I wish I could truthfully tell you that it would shut up anyone claiming we fudged the results to get him on the force. Of course, there are always going to be rumors spread by people with grudges or too much time on their hands. Or both," she admitted. "But Maury's stamp of approval will go a long way toward stifling most of that talk."

Dick nodded. "And I guess, if I'd come to discuss this with you before Bruce's interview, you wouldn't be telling me nearly as much."

"You catch on fast," Sawyer said, amused. "Was there anything else?"

"Um... yeah, kind of. It does have to do with the restraining order. Bruce didn't mention it to me, and I don't want it to look like I've been poking around behind his back."

"Even though you are," Sawyer deadpanned.

"Well, not intentionally. Look. Can you find some... pretext for him to be down here or for at least one of your people to be at the manor on Saturday evening between six and nine?"

Sawyer frowned. "Why?"

Dick sighed. "If everything goes according to plan, you'll know the answer by nine-fifteen on Saturday night. If it doesn't, at least Bruce will have an alibi."

The commissioner's frown deepened. "Give me more to work with."

Dick sighed again. "Ryerson's being manipulated. Someone else is involved who wants that restraining order to stick. I'm handling it, but I can't share the details... yet."

Sawyer shook her head, still frowning as she considered. "Be careful," she said finally. "If she calls in a report of _anyone_ in a Bat-suit within 500 yards of her house, I'm going to have to have my people look into it. And since your relationship to Mr. Wayne is a matter of record—"

"It won't be me," Dick said smoothly. "Or anyone else in a cape." He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I can't give you all the facts, but some secrets aren't mine to share. I can tell you this much: probably tomorrow, you're going to get a request from the Keystone PD for one of their officers to come down to Gotham pursuant to an ongoing investigation. The officer in question is an old friend of Bruce's who knows us pretty well," he said, waiting for Sawyer's nod. "His credentials are legit, in case you were wondering, and he is working on a real case. He's also going to be helping out with this other issue."

"In other words," Sawyer said tartly, "you don't want me to ask too many questions if he expresses an interest in exploring Battergate."

"Something like that." He waited hopefully.

Sawyer sighed. "If I can count on his discretion, you can both count on mine. Be careful, Batman. I need the situation to be contained and resolved quickly, or I will involve my people."

"Understood," Dick said. "And I appreciate your trust."

"You've earned it," she remarked as the young vigilante strode back to the window. Another moment and he was out in the night, leaving Sawyer alone and shaking her head.

* * *

"What's your poison?" Chiarello asked. "The draft beer's pretty good, but they've got a couple of imports. Or if you wanted something a bit more hoity-toity—"

"Ginger ale," Bruce replied firmly.

"You sure? Seriously, this is off-duty time. You're not even driving."

Bruce shook his head. "On-duty or off," he said, "I'd prefer not to impair my judgment. Ginger ale. Please."

Chiarello shrugged. "Two ginger ales," he announced to the bartender. "Brought in some fresh meat to sample some of yours."

The bartender shrugged. "Two ginger ales," he repeated, slamming two glasses of ice down on the bar. He reached underneath and brought up two cans of Schweppes, set them down next to the glasses and popped the tops. "You know what you want to order yet?"

Chiarello turned to Bruce. "I think I know the menu. You can have burger and fries, burger and salad, burger and salad and fries... If you're vegetarian, I guess you can have salad and fries. If you're not, did I mention there are burgers?"

"Funny man," grumbled the bartender. He looked at Bruce. "We've got fish and chicken, too."

"Which are also burgers. Just less greasy," Chiarello retorted.

Bruce took a deep breath. "I'll have the chicken burger with fries and salad. Please," he added.

"Chicken combo," the bartender nodded. "And you're having your usual, I take it?" He glanced at Chiarello.

"Medium-rare, bacon double cheese, extra onions, two orders of fries and make sure you put the ketchup bottle down here—none of those..."

"...Damned little childproof foil packs, I know, I know already. Comin' right up." He turned to the griddle and slapped two patties down. Then he moved to the sink and began washing out glasses.

Chiarello looked at Bruce. "You know, you're not what I expected."

Bruce's eyebrow shot up. "Is that good or bad?"

"Haven't decided yet." He chuckled. "Bet you can't wait for today to be over."

Bruce turned the statement over in his head, looking for a catch. Finally, he nodded slowly. "You'd win that bet," he admitted.

"Heard about the deal you made with the commish. How's the kid?" Chiarello sounded concerned. "I saw how he looked on the news. It wasn't pretty."

"He's doing all right," Bruce said. "One of his teammates is a healer."

"That's lucky."

Bruce cleared his throat. "Listen, I know you're probably going to want to interview him. Is there any way that you can avoid mentioning my ... deal?"

"You didn't tell him," Chiarello inferred.

"Look. He was—is—someone I'd worked with extensively. In the space of one year, he lost his girlfriend, and his father. He also lost a good friend who was like a father to... to him and to me. After my arrest..." He closed his eyes. "I'm getting ahead of myself. After his father died, his stepmother had a breakdown and was in a facility in Bludhaven."

Chiarello's eyes opened wide. "And when Chemo hit..."

"As far as we know," Bruce said softly. "Her body was never found. Harrier... dealt with his pain by withdrawing. Something he probably learned from me," Bruce admitted. "He took my arrest hard."

"Ah," Chiarello replied. "So, the reason you don't want me to tell him—"

Bruce took a sip of ginger ale. "I don't blame him for leaving Gotham after my arrest. I want you to understand that. I was doing my utmost to push people away. He was the only one to take the hint. He sees it as an act of weakness. I don't—but he's convinced that I do, as well. Since my release, he's been trying ... we've both been trying to put the past in the past." He looked away. "Look, he already blames himself enough for what went on before. If he finds out that what happened to him the other night had any bearing on my decision to go through with this... this..." He let his voice trail off. "I don't want to subject him to that. Especially since there won't be any way I can convince him that it didn't."

"He doesn't listen to you?"

Was that an actual note of sympathy he was hearing? Bruce sighed. "He forms his opinions and sticks to them. It's easier to refute facts than opinions and..." He took another sip. "I don't usually articulate my feelings well. It's something I work on—have been working on—for close to two years, now." He set the glass back down gently on the counter. "I've told people who work with me that actions speak louder than words. Unfortunately, I've let actions speak _instead_ of words a few too many times." He shook his head. "Either he'll think that I did this to prove to him that I don't bear a grudge, or he'll blame himself for putting me in this position."

"You sure you don't want that beer?" Chiarello asked. "Or something stronger? I can drive you home after."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm fine."

"To answer your question," Chiarello said, "we keep all interviews confidential."

"I appreciate that," Bruce said, nodding slowly. The bartender slid two plates down before them. Bruce bit into the chicken burger and chewed thoughtfully. It wasn't bad. The bun had been toasted a bit darker than he preferred, the patty was slightly overcooked, but he'd had worse. He'd _made_ worse—a fact that always made him more forgiving of other people's cooking mishaps.

"Pity the baseball season hasn't started yet," Chiarello remarked. "I'm waiting to see the Knights and the Monarchs go head-to-head. Hoping Elton Curtis knocks those transplants back to the Big Apricot."

Bruce grunted. "Didn't Curtis get traded to the Monarchs last season?"

Chiarello blinked. He looked like he was about to argue, but then simply shrugged and picked up the ketchup bottle. "Eh... who's got time to keep up with sports anyway?" He held the bottle over his fries and gave it a thump.

A river of ketchup poured onto his plate. Chiarello growled.

Bruce kept his face carefully blank.

* * *

Dick was in the kitchen when Jim walked in, a plastic shopping bag tucked under his arm. "Bruce isn't back yet," he said. "I just..."

Jim smiled as he saw the takeout flyers on the counter. "Order for yourself if you're inclined," he said. "If he's not back yet, it means they're—"

"I know," Dick nodded, lowering his voice to an ominous whisper. "The Dinner."

Jim laughed. "It's not funny," he said. "Still..."

Dick sighed. "I know. But he's going to be gloomy enough when he comes in. Figured I might as well joke while I can." His eye fell on the shopping bag. "What's that?"

"A bit of information he shared with me over a year ago," Jim said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a carton of jamocha almond fudge ice cream. "And unlike fast food, this can keep for a while if he's not hungry when he gets in."

"Which he won't be," Dick nodded. "Not if Chiarello—and it is Chiarello; Babs confirmed it—is wining and dining him." He winced. "Or beering and burgering him, if my interview process is anything to go by. And even if we're wrong and the interview just ran overtime, Bruce doesn't eat under stress. If he's worked up, he'll be hitting the exercise equipment downstairs."

"True."

Dick sighed. Then he gave the flyers another look. "You like mushroom-pepperoni?"

Jim blinked. "Too spicy. You're ordering from Luigi's?"

Dick nodded. "That's the plan."

He smiled. "Mind you, I'm not vegetarian under normal circumstances. _However_," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "get the _vegissimo_: red sauce, mozzarella, mushrooms, black olives, green pepper and fresh tomatoes."

Dick grinned. "Sold!"

* * *

After they were finished eating, Chiarello excused himself for a moment. Bruce was tempted to get up and leave, but he forced himself to remain. For all he knew, this wasn't over yet and Chiarello meant to drag him back to GCPD for another interview, or some other evaluation. Besides, he wasn't going to walk back to the parking garage to get his car and if he called for a taxi, it would be awkward if Chiarello returned before it got here. Normally, Bruce wouldn't have cared, but he didn't want to take the chance that cutting out early would somehow disqualify his application. Not that he wasn't rethinking the whole deal after today...

"Glad to see you looking better," a voice rumbled.

Bruce spun and found himself looking into a face that was more familiar than it should have been. It was the same with the voice. He'd heard it before, but he was having a hard time placing it now. He frowned.

"Kyle Robbins," the man supplied. "Sergeant. I was out at your place... about—"

Bruce's lips pulled into a smile, as he felt an uncharacteristic rush of warmth. "I remember," he said. "A year ago last November."

Robbins nodded. "I'm glad you got that business sorted out," he said. "I told myself back then that if I ever did run into you on the street, it'd be my privilege to buy you a drink."

Bruce shook his head, but a ghost of his smile still remained. "I think Detective Chiarello's taking care of that."

Robbins made a face. "Next time, then. After the evaluations." When Bruce looked up sharply, Robbins focused on a condensation ring on the counter. "Word gets around," he said. "So, I don't need to ask why you and Chiarello are sharing a meal in a cop bar."

Bruce's smile vanished entirely.

Robbins sighed. "Just keep reminding yourself of one thing. You'll only have to deal with those questions once."

Bruce was silent.

Robbins gestured toward the seat that Chiarello had vacated. "May I?"

At Bruce's nod, Robbins sat down. "Just on the initial application," he repeated. "Never again. D'you know why?"

Bruce grunted noncommittally.

"Because," Robbins said, "not one seasoned officer who's been out there on the streets, day after day, night after night, could pass it. Not with the shi-excuse me, my... um... lack of culture is showing. Not with the _excrement_ we have to wade through on a daily basis. And every backgrounder knows it." He smiled. "I figure... you were out in that mask and cape for what? Sixteen years?"

"Seventeen," Bruce corrected, feeling suddenly old.

"Seventeen," Robbins repeated. "I don't even want to know what you had to wade through. I figure you're probably a thirty-odd-year veteran already."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I'm not sure the people making the decision will see it that way."

"Mr. Wayne," Robbins said smiling, "somehow, I don't think the commissioner'd disregard your track record when it's the reason she's been trying to recruit you for the last few months."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I... About last November," he whispered. "I'd like to thank you for..." He took a deep breath. "Look, we both know you showed me more consideration than I had the right to expect under the circumstances."

Robbins snorted. "What? You mean my letting you walk out of the cemetery under your own steam? Come on. Every two-bit punk hoodlum knew that if the Batman gave his word to them it was money in the bank. Why _wouldn't_ the GCPD rate the same treatment?" He clapped one hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce tensed for one moment, and then relaxed. "And as long as you'd given your word to come peacefully," Robbins continued, "well, I didn't see the point in hauling you off in handcuffs."

Bruce nodded once more, afraid to trust his voice.

"Your dinner date's on his way back," Robbins said, withdrawing his hand. "I'd best head off to my table. But in all seriousness, I still want to take you out for a drink sometime."

"I'd like that," Bruce admitted with a small smile. "Thanks."

* * *

"Think he'll come back here?" Jim asked. "He knows we'll be waiting to hear, and if he doesn't want to talk—"

"Yeah, he's got the city mined with safehouses and hidey-holes," Dick nodded. "Including a few he never shared with the rest of us." He considered. "Even so, I think he'll be back here tonight. Whether he'll sit here and glower or..." He got up from the table. "Come to think of it, maybe I should check the chain on the heavy bag and make sure it's secure."

"That what you tackled after your interview?"

Dick shook his head. "No, I hit the uneven bars. Bruce takes things to extremes. Either he'll want to pound something or he'll find a mat and meditate." He sighed. "If he wants a spar, I'll give him one. We haven't done that in a long time."

"Another night," a voice said quietly from the doorway.

Jim started. "You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days," he snapped, but it was more for form's sake. "You know that, don't you?"

Dick's eyes fell on the remains of the pizza that he and Jim had shared earlier. "I can warm up the last two slices in the oven if you didn't eat yet," he said. "And there's ice cream in the freezer."

Bruce looked from Dick to Jim. "I'm not quite that fragile," he said mildly. "But thanks for waiting."

"Are you...?" Jim didn't finish the sentence.

Bruce nodded wearily. "You didn't exaggerate about the questions," he said. "And," he held up a warning hand, "don't ask me how it went. I'm not sure I can answer that. Where's Selina?"

"She's putting Helena to bed," Dick said. "Or she's upstairs in the den." He stood up. "Well, if everything's okay, I'm going to head home."

"What about patrol?" Bruce asked. "I thought last night was your night off."

Dick made a face. "It was. I was out for a bit earlier, but things were pretty quiet." He smiled. "If my hunch is right—and no, I didn't see them—well, you know the rest of the interviews start tomorrow. Babs has been arranging accommodations for the folks who aren't local and needed to arrive today and stay overnight. I know for a fact that she's been splitting everyone up in different hotels. I'm guessing that there might have been a few extra hands on deck tonight."

Bruce winced. "I should have anticipated something like that, I suppose. Mind you," he forced a lighter note into his voice, "I know you've been working too hard, even with your two-nights-on, one-night-off schedule. Have a good evening."

Dick frowned. "Not that I'm complaining, but you're in a better mood than I thought you'd be. Surprisingly so. Guess it wasn't as—"

"No, it was as bad as we thought. Worse," Bruce admitted. "But I... ran into an old friend afterwards. We caught up." He yawned. "It's been an exhausting day."

Jim sighed. "Come on, Dick. That's a hint if ever I heard one. Good night, Bruce."

As the front door closed behind the two men, Bruce smiled. Despite the interrogation Chiarello had put him through earlier, it actually _was_ a good night.

* * *

_Excerpted from Background Check Interviews. _

_Interviewer: Marcio Chiarello_

_Candidate: Bruce Wayne_

_Interviewee: Black Canary_

MC: Do you have any objection to our conversation being recorded?

BC: None whatsoever.

MC: Just so you know, I will be taking notes throughout this interview. These are for my reference alone and shouldn't be a cause for concern.

BC: I understand.

MC: Will you state your name, please?

BC: Dinah Laurel Lance. Black Canary.

MC: Do you have a preference?

BC: Not really. Whichever's easier.

MC: All right, Ms. Lance. We've got a bit of ground to cover, so let's just get started, shall we? How long have you known Bruce Wayne?

BC: Oh... I'd say it's probably about sixteen years now. Maybe seventeen.

MC: Would you say you know him well?

BC: Pretty well, yes. We've worked closely together in the past.

MC: How does he relate to you?

BC: [_12-second pause_] Professionally.

MC: Is there anything going on between the two of you?

BC: You mean on a personal level? No.

MC: How about in the past?

BC: No.

MC: If I were to ask him the same question, how do you think he'd respond?

BC: Well... if he's being honest, the same way.

MC: If he's being honest?

BC: I'm sure you know that Mr. Wayne adopted a... a public persona to deflect suspicion away from some of his activities. The Bruce Wayne described in the society pages is very much a womanizer. I think that, if you were to ask him the question while he was playing that character, he'd very likely give you a helpless laugh and say something like 'I live in hope.' The truth, however, is that we're colleagues. Friends. Nothing more.

MC: So you never dated.

BC: I've accompanied him to a few social gatherings, but those were more along the lines of undercover work. I was backup. It was strictly business.

MC: I see. Have you ever known Mr. Wayne to get angry?

_Interviewee: Batgirl_

BG: Yes.

MC: How often?

BG: Sometimes.

MC: I'm sorry. Is English not your first language?

BG: First... spoken. [15-second pause] Long story.

MC: I'd like to hear it.

BG: Okay. Until five years ago I... People say, actions louder than words. I had actions. Not... words. No... word-language. Only... body. I read... people better than... books.

MC: What are you reading about me right now?

BG: Surprise. Suspicion. Skeptical—Not lying! You... you're trying to understand. Pity. Don't. I was... okay. [10-second pause] You don't believe.

MC: How often does Mr. Wayne get angry?

BG: Sometimes.

MC: Once a day? Once a week?

BG: Depends.

MC: Have you ever seen him lose his temper?

BG: No.

MC: Never?

BG: Never. He gets... angry. But controls.

MC: When was the last time you saw Mr. Wayne get angry?

BG: Really angry?

MC: Yes.

BG: On pass from Arkham. He... he wanted to leave. Wanted hearing. Lawyer said, 'not yet.'

MC: And what did he do?

BG: Hung up phone. Punched wall.

MC: He was talking with his lawyer on the phone?

BG: Yes.

MC: So when he punched the wall, how hard did he punch?

BG: Not hard.

MC: Was the wall damaged?

BG: No.

MC: Did he break anything? Did he hurt himself?

BG: No. No.

MC: Did he scare you?

BG: No.

MC: When was this?

BG: March.

MC: Last March?

BG: Yes.

MC: Have you ever seen him get angry for any other reasons?

_Interviewee: Superman_

S: I'm sure you're aware that he lost his adopted son in Qurac. Joker was responsible. There was nothing provable, but he had a deathbed confession from another one of the victims.

MC: Did you hear the confession?

S: No.

MC: But you believed him?

S: Well, I do have the advantage of being able to detect changes in heart rate, breathing, and body temperature. He was angry, agitated, even. But he wasn't lying.

MC: I see. So you're a living polygraph?

S: In a manner of speaking.

MC: Could Mr. Wayne fool you?

S: I believe he probably could—if he had a chance to prepare, and if he knew that I was going to be observing him.

MC: Had he had a chance to prepare then?

S: No. Bruce has always kept a very tight rein on his emotions. He may _act_ out of control at times—mostly when he's trying to intimidate people—but it's rare for him to actually _be_ out of control. When Jason died, he was falling apart.

MC: How old was Jason?

S: Fifteen.

MC: Was Jason... Robin?

S: Not at that time. His performance had become erratic. Bruce had taken him off active duty.

MC: Did you observe this or is it what he told you?

S: He told me.

MC: What was Jason doing in Qurac?

S: He'd been living on the streets when Bruce found him. Some months after the adoption, he discovered that his mother was working in a refugee camp.

MC: In Qurac.

S: Yes.

MC: And after Joker killed him, what did Mr. Wayne do?

S: He dealt with the bureaucracy and returned to the States—at which point, he began hunting for the Joker.

MC: Did he find him?

S: Yes. It wasn't hard. Joker had been named the Bialyan ambassador to the UN. He'd actually sent Batman a message telling him to meet him in New York. The State Department asked me to ensure his safety.

MC: Joker's safety?

S: That's right.

MC: What did you do?

S: I confronted Batman. I... had to break the news to him about the Bialyans' newest diplomat.

MC: What did he do?

S: He hit me.

MC: He hit you?

S: Let's keep in mind that I'm invulnerable for a moment, Detective. Let's also keep in mind that he'd just buried his son not twenty-four hours earlier, and that I'd come to tell him that the person who killed him had full diplomatic immunity and was thus untouchable.

MC: What happened after he hit you?

S: He calmed down. We talked. He suspected that the Bialyans would only have employed Joker if they meant for him to carry out a wide-scale assassination. That suspicion turned out to be correct: the target was the UN General Assembly. We worked together and thwarted the attempt.

MC: What happened to the Joker?

S: He escaped.

MC: Do you know whether Mr. Wayne ever confronted Joker again?

S: At least a dozen times. Possibly more.

MC: In your opinion, what would Mr. Wayne do if he was locked in a room with the Joker and he knew that there were no witnesses and no cameras?

S: In my opinion, he would incapacitate Joker as quickly as possible—likely with a blackout hold or a knockout spray. Two to ten minutes later, depending on the kind of lock used, he would be out of the room. If he was within two blocks of a precinct, he'd be carrying Joker. If he wasn't, he'd leave an anonymous tip for your people and you'd likely find Joker either still locked in that room or tied to nearby streetlamp, depending on whether Bruce had to remove the door to get out...

* * *

Alex steepled his fingers and listened without interruption until Bruce was finished. Then he let out a low whistle. "It sounds like you've had more excitement in the last couple of weeks than you've have in the last six months," he said.

Bruce looked up sharply.

"Have you been keeping that journal?"

"Yes."

"Good. How _are_ you handling the vetting?"

Bruce thought for a moment. "It wasn't a pleasant way to spend yesterday, if that's what you're asking."

Alex shook his head. "I don't think anyone enjoys the process," he said. "But this is a situation where you aren't calling the shots, correct?"

"Yes," Bruce said slowly. "But also no. When I say that I have no choice in the matter, that's not precisely true, is it? I can choose to walk away from the table at any time. I can choose to not put myself through any of this—provided I also choose to mothball the costume or go back to who I was before."

Alex nodded, waiting.

"My options are limited," Bruce continued. "But they are options, nonetheless. I'm..." he smiled. "I'm _not_ being forced into this, any more than I was forced to sleep on a filthy floor in a bug-infested hut in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle. But every option has a cost."

"Is this option worth it?"

Bruce hesitated. "I don't know. But maybe," he closed his eyes, "maybe, for once, it's better that way."

Alex frowned, puzzlement plain on his face. "I'm not sure I'm following."

Bruce shook his head. "If I knew for sure that the benefit outweighed the cost," he admitted, "I might try to do what was necessary to influence that outcome. As much as everyone has been stressing to me that I need to be honest with my answers, the reality is that my answers are probably not ideally what the assessors want to hear."

"It sounds to me like they want to hear the truth."

Bruce shook his head. "They don't want me to lie. But the truth may well disqualify me." He looked down. "I did something that, in retrospect, was probably... unwise," he admitted. "After I had filled out the questionnaire and submitted it online, I... at the time of my arrest, one of my colleagues took note of the list of charges that the DA's office prepared to file against me. I accessed that file and read the data. The volume of charges was," he swallowed, "extensive."

"Were the charges accurate?"

Bruce sighed heavily. "Yes. I still feel that my actions in those cases were justifiable, but..."

"But you're concerned that a court may not have seen it that way."

Bruce nodded.

Alex leaned forward. "Then, I suppose it's a good thing that you were never charged." He smiled. "I don't know how the interviewer is going to view it. It seems to me that, if they know about your past activities, they must also know that you didn't always follow the rules. How much leeway they'll give you isn't something that I can predict, but it's reasonable to believe that they would cut you _some_ slack."

Bruce nodded again. "So I've been told. Repeatedly. But I don't _know_." He sighed. "So, yes. That much _is_ out of my control."

"It must be frustrating," Alex remarked. "Everything you normally use to manipulate a situation—money, prestige, subterfuge—here, they'd all work against you. And the truth..."

"...may not achieve the desired result, either," Bruce completed the thought.

"And, from what you told me, you're still not entirely sure what that 'desired result' is."

Bruce shook his head. "No."

* * *

_Excerpted from Background Check Interviews. _

_Interviewer: Marcio Chiarello_

_Candidate: Bruce Wayne_

_Interviewee: Arsenal_

A: So, did you make Bruce squirm? Because if you got it on video, I would pay good money to watch that.

MC: Would you be seated, please, Mr. Arsenal?

A: Just Arsenal, Smokey. Or do you prefer Mr. Policeman, like in the Brad Paisley song?

MC: Detective's fine.

A: [Interviewee hums several bars of a country song]. Oh, sorry. You wanted to ask me about Bruce, right?

MC: If you don't mind.

A: Hey, if I minded I wouldn't be here. Fire away! OH GAWD, DON'T SHOOT! Heh-heh. Sorry. Just always wanted to say that. You understand.

MC: Let's get down to business. How long have you known Mr. Wayne?

A: Well, I met him about fifteen years ago, but we haven't really worked together much. His son and I are pretty tight, though.

MC: So you know him through his son.

A: Yeah, we had this little club. You've probably heard of it... Teen Titans? That ring any bells for you? So the old guard would pop in every so often with a 'hey-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood-and-thought-I'd-drop-by-to-see-if-you-kids-are-throwing-a-wild-block-party-oops-did-I-just-say-that-out-loud?' At least Bruce didn't pretend. He didn't trust us, and we knew where we stood.

MC: Why didn't he trust you?

A: Um... maybe because we were a bunch of adolescents on our own in New York City? Sure, we were good at solving crimes, but we were also teenagers spending a lot of time with no supervision. C'mon, Maury, m'man: we just met and you've probably pegged my personality already, amirite? This is me as a responsible adult. You want to guess what I was like fifteen years ago?

MC: Did you resent Mr. Wayne checking up on you?

A: Hell, I resented Wonder Woman checking up on us, and she's HOT. Yeah, I resented it. I was used to being on my own.

MC: I thought you had a mentor.

A: I had a pal. Nightwing—Robin in those days—had a mentor. And yes, I resented that. Don't tell him I said so.

MC: Did you observe Mr. Wayne and Robin together?

A: _Batman_, Maury. Batman. Mr. Wayne was a suit who fell asleep in board meetings and made the society pages every week with a different floozy. Batman was a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

MC: Did Batman and Robin get along?

A: Hey, Dynamic Duo, right? Yes, they got along.

MC: Did you ever see them fight?

A: Argue, sure.

MC: Heatedly?

A: Yeah, I guess.

MC: What about?

A: Usually, about his taste in friends. Namely me, in case you haven't caught on.

MC: So, Batman didn't approve of you.

A: I think it's more that he didn't approve of Green Arrow, and I was GA's partner, so a bit of that disapproval rubbed off on me. Ah, the hell with it. Look, Batman never gave Robin a second to slack off. Everything was training, everything was regimen, and Robin loved it. He said he'd been training since he could walk, and since the stuff we did was kinda dangerous, he couldn't slack off. And no, thinking back now, I don't think that Batman was a slave-driver. I thought it back then...

MC: What changed?

A: You gotta understand, GA wasn't that driven. He didn't have time to train me much. I think he took me on because I already knew my way around a bow and arrows and he wanted a kid partner. Once he saw that I could handle myself in the field, he pretty much let me do what I wanted. So when I saw Batman riding that kid's back, yeah, I thought it wasn't fair. Except I didn't realize that I wasn't wishing Batman would let up. I was wishing GA would crack down.

MC: Oh?

A: See, Batman didn't show up much. And when he did, he always noticed what you did wrong before he told you what you did right. But Robin knew—we all knew—that he was interested. He cared. Maybe he couldn't come out and say he was worried when it looked like we'd got ourselves killed or trapped in outer space or something. He was never "touchy-feely." But when we showed up safe and sound and he read us the riot act, I know I hated it, but I also know he cared.

MC: Did you ever see him lose his temper?

A: Define lose.

MC: Give way to uncontrollable rage.

A: You know he's never killed anyone, right? Cuz that's your answer right there.

MC: Ever see him raise his voice?

A: Sure. Why, does yelling make someone a bad cop?

MC: Not necessarily.

A: Glad we got that sorted out.

MC: Ever known him to use illegal drugs?

A: No, that would be me. Don't worry. I cleaned up my act over a decade ago. Now, the one time I experimented with hallucinogens, I thought I saw him 50-feet tall and giving me ye olde glower-o-doom. That's probably why I only tried that experiment once. Ever seen 'Scared Straight'?

MC: I'm familiar with it. Did Mr. Wayne know you were taking drugs?

A: I never told him, but I guess you know all about grapevines. Thing is, when I was ready for active duty again, he was the first one who gave me a fair deal. Yeah, he said he'd be keeping an eye on me, and he did—but he kept an eye on everyone. He didn't ransack my room when I wasn't there or demand random drug tests. And yeah, that's probably because he knew what signs to watch for if I did relapse. But once I got clean, he accepted me back before GA did.

MC: Did you ever see Robin with bruises or broken bones?

A: You do know that the Teen Titans were a team of vigilantes, right? I mean, when we encountered Deathstroke or Brother Blood, are you under the impression that we used to try to resolve our differences with a friendly game of rock-paper-scissors? Hell, yeah, he had broken bones and bruises. So did most of us at one time or another. What's this got to do with Batman again?

MC: Did you ever have reason to suspect that Robin's injuries had been inflicted by Batman?

_Interviewee: Wonder Woman_

WW: Great Hera, no!

MC: Not even unintentionally?

WW: To the best of my knowledge, no.

MC: Under what circumstances have you known Mr. Wayne to get angry?

WW: Bruce is a strategist—among the best I've ever met. He tries to plan for every contingency. If his plans fail, if someone is hurt or killed, he blames himself. Even when there was no reasonable way that he could have predicted the outcome.

MC: Anything else?

WW: He sets his expectations high, both for himself and for those who work with him. I believe that this is one of the main reasons he prefers to work alone. When he involves others, they are invariably either people whom he has trained himself, or people whom he has observed long enough to be convinced of their abilities. He can be harsh when mistakes occur, whether they stem carelessness or from more... philosophical differences.

MC: Philosophical?

WW: It's a matter of record that I killed one man to save another. You're aware of the power of my lasso.

MC: Yes.

WW: Under its influence, Maxwell Lord told me that the only way to stop him from controlling Superman was to kill him. I did. A regretful necessity.

MC: I've read the reports.

WW: Bruce disagreed with my actions.

MC: He became angry, you mean.

WW: There _was_ anger, yes. But also sorrow. We... were closer once.

MC: Were you lovers?

WW: No. We'd discussed the possibility, but decided against it. We remained friends. Companions.

MC: And after you killed Lord?

WW: I went to him to explain myself. Under Lord's control, Superman had attacked him. No. Superman had nearly killed him. Lord's mental manipulations had Superman convinced that Bruce was Darkseid. Laboring under that mistake, Superman attacked at full force. Bruce's injuries were extensive. I'd thought... I'd hoped that Bruce would understand my actions. Instead he told me to leave. He couldn't look at me.

MC: But would you consider that to be anger? Or pain?

WW: How often, Detective, can you say that you're feeling only one emotion, completely untainted by any other? He was angry. He felt that I had betrayed his trust. I went to him to explain my actions and, thinking back, I was looking for reassurance that our friendship was intact. He withheld that.

MC: Have you spoken with him since then?

WW: No.

MC: You know that if Mr. Wayne's application is approved, he'll be obliged to carry a gun, and it may happen that he'll have to use it. In your opinion, would he be capable?

_Interviewee: Hawkman_

HM: There's only one way to find out, but I can say this with conviction: if he does take a life, for any reason, you won't need to ask for his badge and gun pending an investigation. He'll approach you to surrender them. He is a warrior—an honorable one. Whatever actions he may undertake in the future, he will own them and face their consequences.

MC: If you heard that he was carrying a gun, would that concern you?

HM: If the circumstances were other than his becoming a peace officer, yes. Because it would mean that his moral code had altered. That would be... highly uncharacteristic, causing me to suspect that other forces were in play.

MC: Other forces?

HM: Manipulation, mind control. We've encountered beings capable of both. We've seen illusionists and shapeshifters. When a colleague begins to behave in a manner inconsistent with his character, it's not something to take at face value.

MC: Do you consider him a friend?

HM: He's a comrade-in-arms. We've had our differences yes, but I respect him.

MC: What... differences?

HM: There's strength in unity. He walked away from the League. It created a crack in the team, which deepened until the League disbanded.

MC: Why did he walk away?

HM: Frankly, he never confided in me.

MC: But you aren't convinced he had a good reason.

HM: If he never provided a reason, how could I determine whether it was good or bad?

MC: Did you ask him to clarify?

HM: No. His reasons for leaving didn't interest me. Only that he was leaving.

MC: Would you work with him again, if he rejoined the League?

HM: Of course.

MC: Of course?

HM: He's a strategist and a warrior. I'd have to be a fool to reject him based on my personal feelings...

* * *

"It's all set," Barry said. "I just got the paperwork approved an hour ago."

Dick smiled. "Great. So, when do you come in?"

"Well, the Flash's interview is set for tomorrow afternoon, so I'll probably run in for that and stay."

Dick started to smile when he remembered something. "Barry... could you maybe make it in tonight? You really need to be on time for this."

The older man blinked. "How long do you think it takes me to get to Gotham from Keystone?"

"Barry," Dick sighed, "please, don't make me access the JLA meeting minutes and verify how many times you showed up late. Normally, I wouldn't care, but this is important."

"I know." His eyes darted away from the monitor for a moment. "Hang on. I just got an email from GCPD." He looked up again a moment later. "Dick? Did you mention anything about me to the commissioner? Or anyone else with the Gotham City police?"

"Just that you're an old friend of Bruce's and mine. Sawyer knows about the restraining order. I wanted to let her know I'm handling it, and I figured she'd be more accommodating if I let her know some... less-classified details about the situation. I didn't blow your identity or anything. Why?"

Barry relaxed. "That explains it. Telling her that Bruce and I go way back. The email is from Maury Chiarello, inviting me to an interview tomorrow evening, regarding Bruce's application. As in, me—Barry." His expression grew serious. "Normally, that wouldn't be an issue. Thing is, he's asking to see the Flash at six tomorrow. He's asking to see Barry Allen at seven. That could be a little risky."

Dick nodded. "Bring Wally in, then?"

"That was my thought, yes. He can take the first interview. We'll leave Keystone together; I'll bring a magazine or something and wait around."

Dick grinned. "Sounds like a plan. And," he looked down, "sorry about that. I should've foreseen."

"No harm done. We were debating which of us was going to field the interview anyway. How _is_ Bruce, by the way? I'm going to pop by and see him later, but is there anything I need to know?"

Dick shook his head. "Well, there is one thing."

"Oh?"

The smile was back. "Yeah, he still hates surprises. So call him first."

"I will. Wait. If he still hates surprises... aren't we keeping him in the dark about how we're handling this whole False Face thing?"

Dick sighed. "He hates people fighting his battles even more. I'll apologize later. For now..."

"Understood. See you on Saturday."

* * *

Cass was taking a practice GED test when Tim stopped by. She looked up. "My night off," she said. "Studying."

Tim smiled. "Yeah, I know. I thought if you wanted to take a break, maybe we could get a spar in before I start patrol."

Cass considered. "Let me finish science section," she said. "Then break before civics."

"Sounds good," Tim nodded. "I usually work out with Bruce, but he cancelled today. He said he had a lot to take care of."

Cass shrugged. "No problem. Glad to... fill in."

"They interviewed you already, right?" Tim asked after a moment.

She looked away from the test and fought back her irritation. "Yes. Please... talk soon? Can't concentrate."

"Sorry."

Cass nodded curtly and returned to the test. Nearly twenty minutes later, she got up and smiled at him. "Okay."

They moved to the mat.

"So how did the interview go?" Tim asked, as he straightened from the initial bow.

Cass shrugged and lunged forward, deliberately leaving Tim an opening. "Okay." She rolled with the kick, surged back and continued. "Asked about Bruce's... temper mostly. Told truth."

Tim overextended. She grabbed his arm, twisted, and tossed him over her shoulder to the mat.

After that, they scuffled in silence. Tim needed his focus—and his breath—for the spar, and Cass had never been fond of 'infield chatter'. Finally, after what seemed an eternity—but was really only a moment or two later—Cass pinned him. "Again?" She asked.

"Gimme a minute," Tim muttered. "Dang. I thought I was better than this. Maybe I'm just worried," he admitted. "So far, they want to talk to Harrier and Robin. Pretty sure that when they start interviewing non-capes, they'll want Tim."

"Yes," Cass said. "Problem. Interviews recorded. Can you... fake three voices?"

Tim frowned. "Two, maybe. But if they don't just use a recorder, if they actually run it through an analyser, it could get messy." He grimaced. "One more thing to worry about." He paused for a beat. "On top of my deteriorating combat skills, and Bruce shutting me out again. I know the interview process is tough, but I didn't spill state secrets when the BPD interviewed me for Dick, and I won't now."

Cass sighed. "Tim," she said, "you aren't only interview. Think Bruce probably more worried about others. And... you fight well. But hurt not long ago. She frowned. "Patrol tonight. You're... okay?"

Tim winced. "Yeah, I should be."

"Could sit out."

"Nah, I owe it to Bruce," Tim said. "Especially now."

Cass sighed. "Tim... Bruce saved you because he's... Bruce. He... he doesn't want you to think you... owe. Wants you... okay." She frowned. There was something wrong about his body language. Something that made her think of deception, but yet, his words rang true. "What?" She asked finally.

"Why the hell did he have to strike a bargain with Sawyer?" he demanded.

Cass blinked. "You're worth it," she said. "Surprised he told you that part."

Tim shook his head bitterly. "He didn't. But you just did."


	7. Chapter 6: Bitter Truths

_You know time comes when a wise man knows the best thing  
That he can do is just look [him] up in the eye  
And beg for mercy and face the bitter truth_

—_Lee Roy Parnell, Tony Haselden, "That's My Story"_

Thanks to Kathy, Xenith, and PJ for the beta. Thanks to Debbie and PJ for help with the Outsiders and GL, this time out.

"That's My Story" written by Lee Roy Parnell and Tony Haselden. Recorded by Colin Raye on his _Extremes_ album (Epic, 1994).

**Chapter 6: Bitter Truths**

Maury Chiarello checked over his interview notes one more time. He hadn't been lying earlier. Wayne was definitely not what he'd been expecting...

_He'd been a young officer working in the Property Crimes unit when Batman had first appeared on the scene. While he'd never met the vigilante face to face, he hadn't missed the sharp upswing in the number of injuries inflicted on suspected perpetrators. At first, he'd assumed that some of the more volatile among his police brethren—and Gotham had had more than its fair share of those back in the day—had been a bit overeager to secure a confession and had concocted some shadowy "Batman" to cover themselves. That idea had lasted until the day Maury had found himself walking past Commissioner Loeb's office, only to see a thin cloud of vapor rising from a crack under the closed door._

_Concerned, Maury had pulled the door open to find the room filled with tear gas. Loeb had been coughing as a menacing voice had snarled, "Stop trying to pin the Tolliver fiasco on Gordon. Or the next time I pay you a visit, I'll be a lot less... restrained."_

_By then, Maury had been struggling to breathe. Over his own wheezing, though, he'd heard the commissioner gasp, "Batman... Don't!" Then he'd ducked out of the room and run for reinforcements—but, by the time they'd arrived, the gas had mostly dissipated and the Batman was gone._

_Over the next few months, Maury had stopped doubting the officers who spoke of the Batman. Clearly, the vigilante was violent, temperamental, and had no regard for authority. He attacked without hesitation, assaulted without remorse, and escaped without consequence. At least, that had been Maury's impression when he'd left Gotham to join the FBI, shortly before Loeb had been forced to step down._

In the years that followed, he'd all but forgotten about the Batman, until his return to Gotham. On the surface, little had changed. The Batman had been a wanted man when Maury had left Gotham. He'd been an Arkham inmate when Maury had returned. The story was no longer news by that time, but, little by little, Maury thought that he'd picked up the gist of it: over time, the Batman had become more reckless, less of a nuisance and more of a menace, and now, he was safely locked away. He'd heard that there was a new Batman now, but Maury hadn't had any dealings with him.

When Sawyer had yanked him away from Internal Affairs to handle Wayne's vetting, Maury had been sure that April Fool's Day had come early this year. Sawyer couldn't have seriously been contemplating bringing a man like that on board.

Then he'd met him. Almost immediately, all of his preconceptions had gone flying out the window. Bruce Wayne was intelligent, calm—at least until Maury had asked a few pointed questions, but even then, Wayne had held his temper far better than most of the candidates he'd vetted. Wayne had a phenomenal memory. He was methodical. He'd also been extremely forthcoming with most of his answers—even when some of them were clearly painful topics to discuss.

Maury was also struck by the way the other Capes spoke of him. Even Hawkman—and it was evident to Maury that there was little love lost between those two—obviously respected him.

That was another thing. When you only saw the costumed crowd from afar—on the news or in photographs—it was easy to look up to them. They were an inspiration; a glimpse of what most people only dreamed they could aspire to. In person, however, they were a mixed bag.

He was amazed at how normal Superman had seemed. For all his powers and all his abilities, there hadn't been a trace of ego. Black Canary had been the same. They seemed like normal people that you might run into waiting in line at an ATM or filling up with gas at a service station.

Batgirl intrigued him. There had been more questions that he'd been planning to ask her—after all, she'd probably logged more hours working with Batman than most of the others. He'd had a hard time getting around the language barrier. Still, despite her stilted speech, he'd been able to get a fairly clear idea of her opinions.

He worried a bit about what Wonder Woman had told him. If Wayne had issues with using deadly force—and sometimes officers did have to use deadly force—how well was he going to integrate into the department? Mind you, his friendship with Gordon was practically a department legend, notwithstanding the former commissioner's use of guns.

As for Arsenal and Hawkman... He was half-wondering whether Arsenal had been high at the interview, though he suspected that the young vigilante might simply have issues with authority figures. And yet, for all his obnoxiousness, his barbed remarks, and his challenges, he'd also displayed a clear respect and appreciation for the Batman. And if Wayne could command that sort of attitude from someone like Arsenal...

His expression soured as he thought about Hawkman. He reminded him too much of some of the officers he'd had to question in IA investigations. The Thanagarian was hiding something—Maury knew it. The only question was whether it was something relevant to Wayne's assessment, or whether it was just something that he didn't want to share with an outsider.

Maury frowned. He'd thought that he'd have Wayne disqualified in a heartbeat—but after the initial interview and the first day of background checks, he was no longer so sure.

There was one question that kept nagging at him, however. If everyone had such respect for him, then why had Batman left?

He sighed. He had three more interviews tonight and ten tomorrow. Hopefully, he'd get to the bottom of it. One way or another.

* * *

"Jim said he thought he saw you come in here," Selina said, gliding into the den. "He seemed to think you were headed downstairs."

Bruce looked up for a moment, but then lowered his head again."I was debating it," he admitted. "I probably will in a moment or two. I'm..." He sighed. "I was debating whether to steel myself for another drill with the berretta or accept that, after yesterday, there probably isn't much point in putting myself through that particular challenge." He sighed. "Then I had a call from Dr. Cinar about my psychiatric assessment." He took another breath. "This Sunday. Nine AM."

Selina nodded sympathetically. "The Las Vegas PD had a sample PHQ available online. I was looking at it yesterday, after you left." She shook her head. "I don't think I could have sat still for some of those questions for more than a couple of minutes before I stormed out, swearing a blue streak."

That got a fleeting smile out of him. "Don't think I wasn't tempted."

She sat down on the same sofa that he was occupying, far enough away to allow him his personal space, but near enough that they could talk without it seeming awkward. "So, what's the psych exam supposed to be like?"

Bruce shook his head. "Who knows? More questions, I suppose—although I'm not certain what else there is that they have to ask. I'll find out Sunday, I guess." Almost imperceptibly, Bruce shifted position and moved slightly closer to her. "The other interviews started this morning," Bruce said.

"And?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "Chiarello hasn't called me yet, so there's a chance he hasn't decided against me—I'm not sure whether the psych exam is dependent on my passing his part of the process, or if it's independent. And an old friend from Keystone phoned earlier to... catch up. Apparently, he's been called in on my behalf."

Selina tilted head. "Any reason to worry?"

"About Barry?" Bruce shook his head. "I don't think so. But we'll find out tomorrow evening. I've asked him to stop by after supper."

"Oh?" She asked archly. "Should I make myself scarce, then?"

Bruce blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Well, it'll help to avoid those uncomfortable questions about how we met." She sighed. "Bruce, most of your 'old friends' seem to be in the same line of work." She shook her head. "At least the ones who don't turn out to be with the competition," she muttered.

Bruce frowned. "If memory serves, we met at a Wayne Foundation gala, not long after my return to Gotham," he said slowly. "I'll admit we didn't strike up much of a conversation until we'd both slipped into something more..."

"Before you finish that sentence," Selina interrupted, "you should know. Vera Wang silk is more comfortable than purple leather. Especially in August."

"I was going to say 'casual,'" Bruce said. "All right. Barry is in the same—as you put it—line of work that I am. And will be. Hopefully." His lips twitched. "Either way, in fact. He's a police scientist in civilian life. That being said, I think I'm comfortable enough fielding the sort of questions you think I can expect by introducing you." He frowned. "That is... if _you're_ comfortable."

Selina smiled and leaned against his shoulder. "Right now," she said, "I am _very_ comfortable..."

* * *

_Interviewee: Black Lightning_

MC: How long have you known Bruce Wayne?

BL: We first met about nine or ten years ago. I'd been going through a rough spot. For some reason, I'd lost my meta abilities. Bruce helped me figure out the problem.

MC: And the friendship persisted?

BL: I'm not entirely sure that 'friendship' is the right word. We work well together. We respect one another. But we never really 'hang out,' outside of business.

MC: So you see eye-to-eye on a lot of things.

BL: Actually, no. It's funny. For a man who operates outside the law, for the most part—operated, I should say—he's got some pretty high ethical standards. [Pause]

MC: Can you elaborate?

BL: I'm trying. Okay. I'm presuming that if you decided to track me down, you probably put my name into your systems and if you didn't know it before, you found out pretty quickly that I served as President Luthor's Secretary of Education.

MC: That's a matter of record.

BL: I accepted that position knowing that Luthor was corrupt, but believing that I could work better to bring him down from within. Batman wouldn't have made that compromise.

MC: But he has worked undercover.

BL: He's impersonated known associates of crime-lords, but while doing so, he hasn't put himself in a position where he's had to turn a blind eye to murder. In my experience, invariably, he's broken cover rather than let that happen. Politics may not be as violent, but they can be just as bloody. I made choices I'm not proud of. I live with them. Not that this is about me.

MC: You know, there's something bothering me. Everyone I've spoken to today has incredible respect for him. Going by what you're all saying, he should be leading the Justice League—maybe even be the public face of it. And yet, when you served under him, it was during a period when he'd quit the League, and that wasn't the only time he'd done so.

BL: Remember what I just said about politics? The Justice League is one of the best... deterrent forces this planet could ever have, and I'm not just saying that. Knowing they're out there makes a lot of people feel safe and secure. It also makes a lot of people nervous.

MC: Criminals, you mean.

BL: Yeah, them too. I was thinking more of people in power. As in, I can't help thinking that Luthor didn't give me that post entirely because of my education credentials. I have them, yes. But for a number of years before he ran for president, Luthor had a particular vendetta against Superman. And the reason for that was—to put it simply—because Luthor wasn't as clean as the image he projected . Now, he knew that Superman knew the truth, but he also knew that Superman didn't have evidence to support it, and that he would only go so far without it. Luthor was already a powerful man. Becoming president only increased that. And powerful men don't like losing their power—and yes, that's the voice of personal experience coming into play, there. The day Luthor took the Oath of Office, Superman graduated from being a thorn in his side to a threat to the free world—or at least to Luthor's version of it. So he decided to fight fire with fire.

MC: By hiring you.

BL: I don't advertise my civilian identity, but I don't take huge pains to hide it either. Luthor probably ran the same kind of background check on me that you're running on Bruce. I have to say, I wouldn't be shocked to hear that they had uncovered my... ah... extra-curricular activities at that time.

MC: Getting back to Mr. Wayne's issues with the Justice League?

BL: Sorry. Okay. So, the League knows that, with the kind of talents they wield, they need to reassure folks that they aren't out to wrest power away from heads of government—that they'll obey the laws of the land. Basically, they'll help with humanitarian aid and fight off interplanetary threats, but they won't interfere in national politics. If they ever did, that could be seen as trying to seize power for themselves.

MC: Or pushing an agenda.

BL: You got it. So. When Baron Bedlam staged a coup and took over the throne of Markovia, the League felt that it couldn't intervene. Batman, however, felt that he couldn't stand aside. So he stepped down from the League and recruited a new team.

MC: To go where the League wouldn't.

BL: Yes.

MC: How did the League react?

BL: Just so you know, the League isn't some homogenous monolith. And I'm afraid I don't have an answer to your question, seeing as how I wasn't with the League. However, whatever they might have thought of his actions at the time, they also recognized that he had a point. Once the Outsiders became more established, the League recognized that we could go in and do the dirty work that they couldn't.

MC: And they had no problem with that?

_Interviewee: Looker_

L: They might have had one, had we been an assassination task force. Batman made the rules very clear at the outset: no killing. No sinking to the level of those whom we were fighting.

MC: How did the Outsiders react to his rules?

L: We followed them.

MC: Without question?

L: I wouldn't say that. We questioned. Then we did what he told us. Usually he knew what he was doing.

MC: But not always.

L: Actually, he did. Sometimes, things didn't work out as he'd planned them, but they always made sense.

MC: What happened when things went wrong?

L: We got captured or we lost our quarry.

MC: I meant, how did he react?

L: He'd analyse. Look over what would have worked. If the error was on the team's part, he drilled us, going over each error, explaining what went wrong. He demanded everything we had. We gave it. Then he demanded more. And we gave that, too.

MC: And if the error was on his part?

L: He drilled himself. He did that even if it was our fault, as if he was to blame for not training us adequately.

MC: Was he?

L: I can't speak for the early days. I wasn't on the team then. But by the time I joined, I would only say that he was to blame in the sense that a commander is held accountable for the performance of the soldiers under him. Not his fault. But he saw it at his responsibility.

MC: You're sure of that.

L: My abilities allow me to read other people's thoughts, Detective. I wasn't always as good at blocking them out. I've been inside his mind. I'm positive.

MC: You've been inside his mind?

L: Yes. Not recently, and I certainly wouldn't do so now, without his permission, but yes, I have been.

MC: Do you think that he's capable of firing a gun?

L: I think that it's the second-to-last thing he'd want to do, but yes. He's capable.

MC: Second-to-last?

L: Well, yes. The last thing he'd want to do is watch another innocent die.

MC: [20 second pause] How does Mr. Wayne deal with failure?

L: If it's something he can correct, he doesn't rest until he has. If it's something he can't, he doesn't rest until he's sure it won't happen again. Frankly, he's a lot quicker to excuse errors of judgment in others than he is in himself—and he's not at all quick to excuse errors in anyone.

MC: Is that why he left the Justice League to start his own team?

_Interviewee: Green Lantern_

GL: I don't _think_ so. I mean, Bruce isn't exactly the most open person at the best of times, so I can't say if he had other reasons.

MC: Was that "can't say" or "don't know"?

GL: At this point? You're going back over a decade. I honestly don't know. We weren't happy when he stepped down, but time can give you a new perspective.

_Handwritten note: Head lowered, hands clenched, feet tapping. Stopped when I looked at him. —MC_

GL: Oh, sorry.

MC: Are you nervous about something?

GL: What? Oh. I... guess I'm not great when it comes to interviews. Never have been.

MC: You know that this isn't about you, right?

GL: Sure, but I don't want to ruin things for Bruce.

MC: Do you think this position is a good fit for him?

GL: I honestly think that he's a good fit for anything he wants to be.

MC: Now, when he came back to the Justice League, was there any friction? Did you still trust him to have your collective backs, even though he'd walked out before?

GL: Look, nobody was under contract. We all had other jobs, other responsibilities. Most of us had our own cities to look after. So while we were all "League members," the truth is that there could be long stretches when any one of us was unavailable. Batman actually did us a favor by being upfront in telling us he was out.

MC: So his leaving had no bearing on your professional relationship.

GL: None.

MC: Now, it's fairly obvious that he's done well, both as a team leader and as a lone fighter. How would you rank him as a team _player_?

GL: I think... I'm not sure if I can explain this well. He's a fantastic planner. He'll come up with a plan and you know that if you follow it, there's a very good chance that you, and everyone with you, are going to make it out alive. He... sometimes, on the news, you'll hear phrases like "acceptable losses," or "collateral damage," when they're talking about a military action. It probably means something like "500 people were facing certain death. We rescued 490. That's fantastic." Batman is all about "If ten people have to stay behind, you can ask for volunteers, but make sure that you're one of those ten." He doesn't accept "acceptable losses". And that's why he prefers that you follow his plans, but you don't follow _him_. Because he knows that he's going to bring out all 500 people or die trying—but he doesn't want it on his conscience that his teammates may have died trying to help him.

MC: So he left because he didn't want to endanger others, and then went directly into leading an untrained team into greater danger?

GL: Um...

MC: Green Lantern?

GL: [45-second pause]

MC: I'm not doubting you, but I am trying to understand. If he's a loner who doesn't like to lead, why would he found and lead a new team?

GL: I'm guessing he had some plan. I mean, he wouldn't do something like that unless he thought it was necessary.

MC: To found a team, or to leave the League? Since, as you say, he could have just taken an extended absence, rather than formally resign.

GL: Yeah, but if he had been a member in good standing when he led the Outsiders into Markovia, it wouldn't have reflected well on the League.

MC: Would you have kicked him out for that?

GL: I... don't know.

MC: Okay. Now he resigned from the League not long before he was arrested in Gotham, too, right?

GL: Yes.

MC: Why?

GL: I wasn't there.

MC: But you know.

GL: Not really. Things happened. He wanted to go it alone.

MC: Things?

GL: It was shortly after Sue Dibney's death. I know that hit us all hard.

MC: But you didn't all resign. Was there anything... going on between Mr. Wayne and Mrs. Dibney?

GL: What? You've got to be kidding me. No. No, of course not.

MC: Sorry. I'm trying to understand what's going on here. Murder is a terrible thing, yes. But only Mr. Wayne resigned. Why? Did he think that you were pursuing the wrong suspect?

GL: No.

MC: Did he think that the investigation was being mishandled?

GL: No. Actually, he was handling it.

MC: Is it possible that he discovered evidence of some sort of cover up?

GL: C-cover up? Like what?

MC: I don't know. That's why I'm asking. Was someone attempting to conceal evidence?

GL: [60 second pause]

MC: Was Mr. Wayne keeping back evidence?

GL: No.

MC: Was someone else sabotaging the investigation?

GL: No. Well, kind of. I mean the killer was someone we knew and she was trying to deflect suspicion away from herself, but she wasn't investigating.

MC: So Wayne completed the investigation, caught the killer, and resigned.

GL: Not right away.

MC: How did he react when he discovered who the murderer was?

GL: He was shocked. Horrified. We all were.

MC: Do you think he stalled? Maybe because he didn't want to believe the facts before him?

GL: You really don't know him very well, do you?

MC: I'd like to.

GL: Bruce doesn't shy away from the evidence—not even when it's pointing where he doesn't want it to. He'll dig deeper if the pieces don't fit, but once he sees the pattern, he doesn't pretend it's not there.

MC: So he saw something familiar in the Dibney investigation. He remembered a similar case?

GL: Yes.

MC: And he realized where the evidence was pointing.

GL: Yes.

MC: What tipped him off?

GL: Sorry?

MC: What was the pattern he didn't want to believe he was seeing? You said that the evidence was pointing in a direction he didn't like.

GL: Well... that the killer was someone we knew.

MC: And someone was covering for them.

GL: No. No, once and for all, that wasn't the cover up!

MC: Oh? Then what _was_ the cover up?

* * *

It was easier to fire the gun when he used rubber bullets—at least if, by "easier," he meant that he could now pull the trigger and not feel his heart pound in his chest. When he checked the target, however, he found that of the fifteen shots that he had fired, fourteen had missed the target altogether, while the last had barely entered the outermost ring of the bulls-eye (he still couldn't bring himself to use a silhouette-style target). He sighed.

"Can we come down?" Selina called over the intercom. "Helena wants to say goodnight."

Bruce closed his eyes. He'd barely spent any time with his daughter over the last day and a half. With the stress that he was under, he hadn't wanted to risk losing his temper around her. "Wait two minutes," he replied. "I need to put something away."

* * *

"You what?" Barry yelped.

On the other end of the phone, Hal gulped. "You weren't there, Bar'. He just kept after me and after me until he dragged it out."

Barry groaned. "So, wait. You get captured by Chechnyan terrorists —the military hands you a medal—for withstanding days of torture, I might add. You fight Sinestro and Hector Hammond. You take on _Darkseid_. But you'll spill the beans to a police backgrounder who isn't even making _you _the focus of the investigation?" At Hal's silence, he went on. "It wasn't just any medal, Hal. They gave you the POW Medal. It's like the badge that tells everyone that you're not someone who just gets weak in the knees when an interrogator decides to toss the Geneva Convention out the window in handling you. And you're telling me that you just gave in to a backgrounder? Geez... it's not like the GCPD uses torture... or drugs... or mind control." He rolled his eyes, half-wishing that they were on a video call so Hal would see it. "Well," he concluded, "it looks like Bruce needs to update his files on your weaknesses to include ... Just what did the guy roll out for you, Hal—was it a _staredown_? Or did he go straight to puppy dog eyes?"

"Cute."

"Hal," Barry continued, "when Sue died, you weren't even part of the League; you were the Spectre, for crying out loud. How hard would it have been to keep saying 'I don't know. I wasn't a member at the time?'"

Hal sighed. "Look, I know I messed up. I just figured I'd let you know, in case he tries to get more out of you when it's your turn."

Barry paused for a moment. "Fine," he replied. "I'll tell Wally to be prepared."

"Wally?"

Barry exhaled. "Yeah, he's going to have to fill in, seeing as..."

Hal listened to Barry's explanation. "You know," he said slowly, "maybe you should let Bruce know the cat's out of the bag on that one. I mean—"

"I hear you," Barry said. "If Bruce is going to conceal anything, I think he'd clam up about the mindwipes. Fine. I'm heading over to the manor tomorrow night after my interview, anyway; I was going to see if there was any way he'd accept an apology after all this time. You'll come with me. Tomorrow at eight—meet me outside GCPD ."

"Me?"

Barry waited.

Hal gulped, feeling like he was back in the interview room. "Yeah, okay, sure. Tomorrow." He hung up the phone. Instead of being over, it looked like his nightmare was just beginning.

* * *

"Hi, Daddy!"

Bruce smiled as Helena ran up to him. "She should be wearing slippers," he remarked, seeing bare toes peeping out beneath the hemline of her blue flannel nightgown. "The floor's cold down here."

"Oh, it's just for a minute," Selina replied. She gave her daughter a light shove. "Go give Daddy a good night kiss."

Bruce held out his hands as Helena bounded forward. He still wasn't used to displays of affection, but they were starting to feel more natural—at least, where Helena was concerned.

"Will you be coming upstairs any time soon?" Selina asked, trying not to giggle as Helena scrambled into Bruce's lap, wrapped her arms about his neck, and deposited a loud kiss on his cheek.

Bruce hugged her close. "Soon," he said. "At least, that's the plan." He touched his lips briefly to Helena's forehead and then released her. She looked around the cave with interest.

"Mmm," Selina said without rancor. "I've heard that one before."

Bruce had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm not trying to avoid you," he said. "It's just..."

"I know," Selina sighed. "You get involved in something down here and the next thing you know, it's nearly sunrise. Still... what if they call you to come in for another interview first thing in the morning?"

"Point." Bruce's shoulders slumped. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

"A good night's sleep isn't a bad idea," Jim's voice interrupted their conversation.

Bruce shot an irritated glance at the intercom. "You know, since Alex has officially ended my mandatory supervision, you don't _really_ need to keep monitoring me."

"Hey," Jim shot back, "I spy because I care. You taught me that."

Selina laughed. "I think he's got you there, handsome." Her eye fell on Helena and she nudged Bruce.

Bruce's scowl gave way to a smile. The little girl was walking carefully along a length of orange extension cord, her expression as serious as if she'd been on a tightrope. He started to get up, but stopped as he felt a hand against his chest.

"No, leave her," she said. "Let her do it on her own."

"For the record," Jim said seriously, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just thought you might want to know. I'm meeting with GCPD on Saturday morning." He chuckled. "Looks like you're still under consideration."

* * *

Dick was getting ready to leave on patrol when his phone rang. "Hello?"

"I need a favor," the voice on the other end said without preamble.

"Hal? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Look. Don't tell me how badly I screwed up—Barry's already read me the riot act, but I need you to run interference for me with Bruce."

Dick blinked. "Huh?" Then it sank in. "Hal? What did you _do_?"

That was when Barbara's voice came on. "Sorry to override your conversation, Current Bat Wonder, but I've got Barry on a priority channel. You need to take this."

Dick sighed. "I'll call you back, Hal."

"But..."

"Later." He hit the disconnect button. "Okay, Babs. Patch him through."

Barry was terse. "We've got a problem."

"Yeah," Dick said. "Hal was just about to tell me when you cut in."

Barry sighed. "That's actually not what I was calling about. You know, when they interview a law enforcement candidate, they interview just about _everyone_. Friends, family," he paused, "and _co-workers_."

Dick nodded. "Yeah, that shouldn't be news to either of us. So..." Then it hit him. "Paxton."

"Paxton," Barry confirmed. "He just might be able to scuttle this."


	8. Chapter 7: Mistakes and Regrets

A/N: Quick reminder that in this AU, Bruce never adopted Tim. When _Locked Inside the Facade_ opened, Jack Drake had just died during Identity Crisis and Tim and Cass were operating out of Bludhaven.

Barry Allen being a full-fledged detective is my own invention. Chalk it up as one of the divergences in this divergent AU.

Spoilers/Trigger Warnings: Identity Crisis. Mention of rape.

"Unstoppable" written by Jay DeMarcus, James T. Slater, and Hilary Lindsay. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their _Unstoppable_ album (Lyric Street, 2009).

Thanks to Kathy, PJ, and Xenith for the beta!

_So, so you made a lot of mistakes  
Walked down the road a little sideways  
Cracked a brick when you hit the wall  
Yeah, you've had a pocketful of regrets  
Pull you down faster than a sunset  
Hey, it happens to us all_

—_Jay DeMarcus, James T. Slater, Hilary Lindsay, "Unstoppable"_

**Chapter 7—Mistakes and Regrets**

Dick sighed. He'd probably never be able to devise as many contingency strategies in a day as Bruce could in an hour, but years of working alongside him had taught him one vital lesson: don't get so enamoured of Plan A that you ignore the evidence that suggests it's time to switch to Plan B. "Bruce invited you to the manor tomorrow night?"

"That's right," Barry confirmed.

Dick took a deep breath. "You know how it's going to look if the League raves about him and the board slams him."

"Actually," Barry said slowly, "I don't. We don't. It's going to come down to who Chiarello thinks is more reliable—and openness plays a big part of that."

"But we're being open," Dick countered. "Aren't we?"

"To a point," Barry replied. "Look, as it is, when they ask me how Bruce and I met, I'm going to have to talk strictly about encounters I've had with him as a police scientist. Now, it's true that I've turned to Bruce every now and again to help me with a case—heck, to use his lab; sometimes we'd get backlogged, or I'd suspect that someone was deliberately trying to slow down an investigation. Still and all, there's a lot more that I _could_ say if _my_ identity were a matter of record."

"I understand what you're saying," Dick said, nodding, "but don't you think they'll be aware that we're going to have to keep some stuff back?"

"Aware, yes. Okay with it, not really. It's really going to come down to whether they trust that we're being as open as we can be, or whether they think that we're intentionally holding back the kind of stuff they need to know about Bruce. Meanwhile, you're going to have Paxton and his flunkies acting open and aboveboard, all the while giving less-than-glowing accounts—and they'll have to, if they're trying to prove that Bruce isn't yet stable enough to come back to his company." Barry waited for that to sink in. "It could be problematic."

Dick took a deep breath. "I hear you. Especially when they ask Bruce why he thinks that the Board was running him down—they still do that, don't they?"

"Oh, yeah."

Dick sighed. "At least with me, I was more or less expecting it when Bruce refused to show up for me."

"That's right," Barry perked up. "I forgot that you were an officer for a while. What happened?"

"It... didn't take." He took another breath. "Okay. Change of plans. We tell him."

"I thought—"

"Look, what's better? Chiarello asks Bruce why the Board seems disturbed about his application and he sits there trying not to look like he's been caught off-guard, as he wonders whether Chiarello's fishing or whether they gave him a reason—and either way, Bruce doesn't know what it is... Or we tell him what's going on, how it ties in with the restraining order, and then fill him in on how we're fixing it?" Dick took another breath. "Either way, he's not going to like it. But this way, he at least knows what's going on."

"And if he forbids it?"

"Then we respectfully ask him to come up with something better, or we apologize and go ahead with what we discussed."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Barry? Are you still there?"

Barry chuckled. "I'm just trying to remember that earnest young man I used to know—the one who'd never have dreamed of defying Batman."

"C'mon," Dick protested, feeling his face grow hot. "I was eleven. We all grow up." He winced. "I mean..."

"I'm just teasing you," Barry said, a smile coming across clearly in his voice. "And I shouldn't. I think you're right. So... were you planning to come by the manor tomorrow night around supper time so we could tell him together, or did you want to handle it earlier?"

Dick considered. "Earlier. I think he'll deal with it better if he has to hear it from me alone. Then if he shoots the idea down, you can try to convince him when you show. Meanwhile," he smiled, "if we're done, I should call Hal back and find out what he was on about—he sounded pretty upset."

"Actually," Barry coughed, "I may as well fill you in on that too. I did tell him to come with me tomorrow evening, but if you think we shouldn't dump it all on Bruce at once, maybe that's another thing we should change. You see..."

As Dick heard Barry out, his expression changed from concern to incredulity. "Oh, he did _not_...!"

* * *

Tim sipped the coffee as soon as it had cooled enough to do so without burning his tongue.

"You realize that he needed an excuse," Barbara said as she poured herself a cup. "He doesn't blame you."

Tim shook his head. "He doesn't have to. _I_ blame me. I can't believe I fell for that stupid trap."

Barbara sighed. Then she looked up sharply. "Why'd you turn off your comm-link, anyway?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "I didn't think the victim was going to make it, and I didn't want to hear anyone asking me if she was okay while I was going to be trying my best to keep her with us. Stupid, I know. Anyway, that's why. And now..."

Barbara raised her eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "What would you say," she asked slowly, "if I told you that Bruce called Commissioner Sawyer about acquiring deputy status almost a week before you got nabbed? Tim, he wants to go back, but he knows that with his identity an open book, it's not going to happen without some sort of official sanction."

Tim's eyes grew wide. "So you mean that Joker's ultimatum had nothing to do with his decision."

She hesitated a moment too long.

He slumped. "Nice try."

"Tim!" Barbara snapped with a sharpness that startled them both. "He was about to back down—because of the gun-handling issue."

"You're not helping."

"But _you_ did!" Barbara took a deep breath. "He's afraid of guns. Knowing that saving you meant that he was going to have to work on it gave him the drive to push past that fear."

Tim shook his head with a bitter smile. "Bull. Bruce with a gun phobia? C'mon, Babs. Do you seriously expect me to believe that?"

Barbara regarded him solemnly for a moment. Then she reached up to the shelf over her computer and took down a jewel case, containing a single CD. "Bruce told us about it at a meeting the morning after you were captured," she stated. "I recorded it to fill you in later." She thrust the case at him. "When you're done playing it, if you still don't believe me, fine. Either way, we can discuss this further at that point. But you need to hear this."

Tim swallowed hard. Then he took the case gingerly and walked over to a nearby monitor.

Barbara went back to reading the report Zinda had given her on the Birds' recent mission to Austanburg. A moment later, she heard Bruce's voice clearly over the speakers as the CD began to play.

"_Some of this, you already know, but I'll start with that. Shortly before I was accused of murder..."_

* * *

_Excerpted from Background Check Interviews_

_Candidate: Bruce Wayne_

_Interviewer: Marcio Chiarello_

_Interviewee: Plastic Man_

(Interviewer's note: Subject shape-shifted throughout the interview.)

MC: Could you please stop?

PM: What? Oh. Sorry. Nervous habit.

MC: Are you nervous about anything in particular?

PM: Just a little twitchy being grilled.

MC: Oh?

PM: Curse of a misspent youth. I paid my debt to society and all, but I didn't like getting interrogated then, and it sucks now. Frankly, if Bruce weren't a friend...

MC: So you think of him as a friend?

PM: Anyone who comes through for a guy as many times as he has, yes, I call him a friend.

MC: And would he say the same about you?

PM: I don't know.

MC: You don't. Um... could you change back?

PM: Oh, sheesh. Am I doing that again?

MC: Yes, and I feel silly talking to a puddle.

PM: Sorry. Where were we?

MC: You weren't sure if Mr. Wayne considers you a friend.

PM: Well, no. I'm pretty sure he does. I just don't know if he'd admit it. See... he's always serious. Grim. Never turns a frown upside down, you know what I'm saying?

MC: Go on.

PM: Well, a guy like me sort of sees that as a challenge—trying to get him to lighten up, I mean. So, I'd change myself into a whoopee cushion and sneak into his chair... that kind of thing.

MC: And?

PM: The frown stayed right-side up.

MC: I see.

PM: But deep down, way wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy down, I kinda think he likes me.

MC: You do. Do you trust him?

PM: About as far as I can throw him. When I've turned myself into a slingshot. Not one of those Dennis-the-Menace types. One of those giant kinds like Wile E. Coyote orders from Acme, except I wouldn't toss him into the side of a cliff. [Pause] Yes. That was a yes. I trust him.

MC: You sound a bit uncertain.

PM: I'm not, really. It's more... okay. Look. He has major trust issues. In the sense that he always comes up with contingency plans. What if Superman gets taken down early? What if Green Lantern goes rogue? What if I have beans for seven meals straight? It's not that he doesn't trust us, it's that he worries that maybe trusting us could be a problem. [Pause]. And since Superman nearly beat him to a pulp a few years back, maybe he's got a point.

MC: Was that the only time his trust was betrayed?

PM: I heard you spoke to GL. He was there. I wasn't. Heard about it later though. Yeah, if it had been me, I would've quit too when I found out—and a lot less politely. Sheesh.

MC: So you're saying his, um, trust issues are justified.

PM: What you just asked me about happened long before I joined the League. I didn't know about it then. Frankly, that's part of the reason I didn't rejoin when they started up the latest version. Thing is... Batman made up a bunch of non-lethal ways to take us—and by 'us' I mean the League—down, if we went rogue. He never said a word. He just stored the data on his computer. Knowing him, it was probably encrypted. Almost had to be. Someone got it. I don't know how. Next thing we knew, we were all trapped—some of us in our worst nightmares.

MC: How did he react?

PM: You mean as soon as he knew what was going on? He told us.

MC: Did he attempt to shift responsibility at any time?

PM: No.

MC: Did he make excuses?

PM: No.

MC: So he saw his... contingency plans put into practice, and he immediately confessed that they were his plans.

PM: Yelled it at the top of his lungs.

MC: What happened next?

PM: We neutralized the traps. Banded together. Fought the bad guy. Then we sat down and took a vote.

MC: A vote.

PM: On whether to kick him out of the League. He left before it was finalized.

MC: But if he had stayed?

PM: He would've been gone.

MC: But you reinstated him afterwards.

PM: After what he did... we all had trust issues. He... well, he doesn't exactly apologize, but... Before, you asked if I trusted him. I do. Because he showed that he trusted us. By unmasking. Oh, and I got to slug him. And he didn't hit me back.

MC: And you'd be willing to work with him again?

_Interviewee: Green Arrow_

GA: Sure, if he wanted to.

MC: Despite his... abrasive personality.

GA: Abrasive? Him? Sheesh, if I corroborate that, I'll have to hear about pots and kettles for months. Hell, the Bat's a flippin' diplomat, compared to yours truly. Sure, I'd work with him again. "Liking" doesn't enter into it. I'd have to be an idiot not to know that any team's odds are better if he's on it.

MC: So you don't like him

GA: I didn't say that. We're friends. Good friends. But... Well, let's just say we don't see eye to eye on a lot of issues. Doesn't matter. We've butted heads more times than I can count, and we've stayed tight.

MC: But you've had your differences.

GA: Why, no officer. We're cloned from the same donor. Exactly alike. Didn't you see the resemblance? Sheesh, it's like you're a damned telemarketer reading a survey off a script. Oh... sorry. That was uncalled for. I can always hang up on telemarketers.

MC: Is Arsenal your biological child?

GA: Huh? Uh... no. Why?

MC: I'm always curious about heredity versus environment. Okay. So you're friends, but you spend a good part of your time arguing, is that it?

GA: It's complicated. I mean, it's not like we hang out together outside of business. Sheesh, his idea of fun is upgrading his security systems. How are you supposed to get close to a guy like that?

MC: Did you wish you were closer to him?

GA: If you're asking what I think you're asking, buddy, the answer's no.

MC: How does Mr. Wayne deal with stress?

GA: He glowers his way through it, basically. Wait. Seriously, I've seen him meditate. Or hit the fitness equipment. Or hit the wall.

MC: Or hit other people?

GA: Only if they're breaking the law and moving to hit him first.

MC: How about if they're attempting to rewire someone else's brain?

GA: Oh. I was wondering whether we were going to go there. Well, let's see. On the one hand, we had a strict no-kill code that we all stood by, as members of the League. On the other hand, we had this piece of... _technically_ human scum who had just... forced himself on the wife of one of our members. We chose to deal with the matter internally, in such a way that the victim would never need to worry about the creep again. Actually we voted.

MC: To lobotomize Dr. Light.

GA: Well... I voted against. I was holding out for removing something else of his. Something that would fit the crime a bit better, if you take my meaning... but as it happened, I was in the minority on that one.

MC: And Mr. Wayne opposed the vote.

GA: Mr. Wayne came late to the party. He confronted us just as we were wrapping things up. We got nervous. I mean, as much as we agreed that something had to be done and we did it, when he showed, I think we all started doubting. Just for a second.

MC: So you removed his memory.

GA: Voted to. Ten minutes of his short-term memory. Just long enough to erase what he'd just seen.

MC: It didn't occur to you to try to talk him around to your point of view?

GA: Wouldn't have worked. I told you a few minutes ago that we don't always see eye-to-eye on things. This would have been one of those things.

MC: Do you have any regrets?

GA: Hmmm... Is this the point where I say I regret getting caught? Because, frankly, it kinda feels good to talk about it. Regret the mindwipe wearing off? Yeah, I guess. Maybe we should have had it out then and there, face to face, fist to fist. What would have happened? He'd have resigned in a huff? Wouldn't have been the first time or the last. Would he have tried bringing the Justice League to... justice? Nah, I think he probably would have had issues testifying against us in a court of law, right about the point when they ask you, 'would you state your full name for the record?' Regret the necessity of it all... stopping Light... stopping Batman... reaping the harvest years later... [pause] maybe. But then I ask myself... what would I have done, if I were faced with a similar situation today? I'm a married man. If I'd come home and found out that someone had attacked my wife... Hell. It would take a lot of fast-talking to get me to accept a psychic lobotomy over something more... permanent. And if anyone were to try and stop me once I was committed on that course... all I can say is that he'd better be out of bow-range. Whatever regrets I might have over what went down that day, Batman got off easy.

[Long pause]

MC: When he confronted you, was he angry?

GA: Yeah. Also shocked and horrified.

MC: Out of control?

GA: No.

MC: Have you ever seen him out of control?

GA: Okay... Have you already made your mind up about him?

MC: Excuse me?

GA: Look. You've been talking to all of us over the last day or so. Do you seriously think we haven't been comparing notes? You keep asking the same damned questions. Is he violent? Is he out of control? Is he abusive? Are you sleeping with him? So, here's the thing. If I tell you the truth and it goes against whatever picture you've constructed in your mind, are you going to change the picture? Or are you going to keep talking to us and hope one of us confirms what you're looking to hear?

MC: We do screen our applicants thoroughly, Mr... Arrow. Police brutality makes the headlines too often. We're trying to reduce that likelihood.

GA: Which is why you want to know if he's, you'll pardon my French, getting any?

MC: It's a standard question.

GA: Maybe you ought to rethink your standards.

MC: Have you ever known Batman to violate the law?

GA: If you've ever seen him swing over the rooftops from forty stories up, you could probably make a case for a gravity violation. What is that, a 10-56-Oh?

MC: A ten-fifty-si... Outstretched person. Funny man.

GA: Yeah, well when he swings away, he does. Stretch out, I mean.

MC: I get it. What_ do_ you think of his parenting skills?

GA: They work for him. I could never be that much of a stick in the mud, but if you're going by results... he brought up two great kids.

MC: And buried one of them.

GA: Yeah, well life deals you a lousy hand once in awhile, and all you can do is suffer through and play it the best you can. When the Joker blows up your son, I don't think parenting skills factor into the equation.

MC: But if he hadn't made the boy his partner, he'd probably still be alive.

GA: Possibly. Not probably. There aren't many of us who can see what _could_ have been. And if you live in Gotham, I probably don't have to tell you that Joker... happens.

MC: So you don't think there's anything that he should have done differently?

_Interviewee: Harrier_

H: Well, I can't really tell you much about Jason. He was dead before I met Batman.

MC: How did you meet him?

H: I contacted Nightwing. He gave me a formal introduction.

MC: Just like that?

H: Like I said, I can't tell you much about Jason as a person, but I can tell you that after he died, Batman pretty much became a solo act. He got darker... scarier, too, but in all the wrong ways. I thought he needed to work with a partner, so I tracked down Nightwing, hoping I could convince him to team up with Batman again.

MC: You knew that Nightwing was the former Robin.

H: Yeah. I figured it out the night I saw Robin turn a quadruple somersault on the news. Only three people on the planet could do it. I'd watched one of them one night. And years later...

MC: You recognized the move.

H: Yeah.

MC: So you went after Nightwing.

H: Yes

MC: Then what happened?

H: Nightwing told me that he couldn't go back to being Robin... but that I could. And he convinced Batman to give me a try. [Pause] Yeah. I used to be Robin... the Robin you've been leaving messages for.

MC: Any reason you didn't just explain that when we spoke on the telephone?

H: I wasn't sure it was important. And I've seen too many people find out my secrets and get hurt.

MC: But you're telling me now.

H: You're recording the conversation. All I need is for you to listen to Robin and Harrier back-to-back and... Look, I don't want Bruce to get disqualified because I was stupid, okay?

MC: Do you think he's a good fit for the role?

H: I've seen him take down twenty or thirty armed men with zero casualties, resolve hostage crises, follow trails that were years cold... He's got more strategies than a chess grandmaster... and he probably _is_ a grandmaster, anyway—

MC: How is he at following someone else's orders?

H: He recognizes the chain of command.

MC: Then why did he try to seize command of police forces during the mob war?

H: He thought it was better than having GCPD second-guess him and get caught in the crossfire.

MC: But they _were_ caught in the crossfire.

H: Yes.

MC: In your opinion, what would have happened if they'd obeyed orders instead of following Mr. Wayne?

H: Honestly? I think you would have lost more people. Black Mask and the "families" would have gone on unchecked for a bit longer while you had some officers holding the line, SWAT ready to jump in... The police still would have walked into a firefight, only the other side would have been even more prepared.

MC: Would Mr. Wayne agree with your assessment?

H: No.

MC: No?

H: I don't know how many times I'd show up at our base of operations before patrol... or head back afterwards, and he'd be at the computers, running data, assessing his actions, calling up computer simulations. Every time someone died in front of him, he'd be trying to see what happened, what could have gone differently. I... there were times when I wanted to grab him and tell him it was enough already. That what happened was six people had guns and he couldn't disarm them all before someone got off a lucky shot. But every time I tried, he'd beckon me over to the screen and say, "I've found five scenarios so far where I could have saved them." Or ten. Or two. Or a million. It didn't matter. If there was one other way it could have gone down, he'd make note of it. He doesn't start ordering people around because he gets some thrill from being in charge. He does it because he wants to know that he did everything he could to keep casualties to zero.

MC: Has it ever occurred to him that if he followed orders, he might accomplish that?

H: If you take the mob war out of the equation, Sir... tell me who has the better track record? I ran the data before I came down. I already know the answer.

MC: So he's always right?

H: Of course not. But if I got to pick who to follow into a pitched battle... or a turf war... or firefight... or—if you'll excuse the dramatics—the jaws of Hell, it'd be Batman. Doesn't matter who the other players are. I know who I'd trust most, not only to get me back safely, but to bring everyone else in too...

* * *

After Harrier left, Chiarello looked at the clock. It was hard to believe that it was barely noon. Between Plastic Man's nervous shape-shifting and Green Arrow's overt hostility, it had been a long morning. At least, Harrier had been polite—a bit intense, earnest one moment and world-weary the next, but polite. He checked his afternoon roster and smiled. He'd intended to finish with the Capes—or at least, the ones he considered to be "peripheral" Capes, as opposed to Wayne's son—before he moved on to the PMWE contingent . For the most part, that was happening. He still had Huntress and the Flash this afternoon.

He was waiting to hear back from Blackgate about whether they would allow him to interview Two-Face. He could probably take care of that one tomorrow or Saturday, assuming that approvals came through. For now, he had an hour for lunch. After that, he was going to start talking to the execs at PMWE—Huntress had asked for spot at four o'clock or later. He'd slated her for five—that gave him plenty of time for the suits from downtown. He had the Flash at six, and then the Keystone Cop. He smirked. Sure, the guy was coming from Central, not Keystone, but they were practically one city anyway.

He took a sip of cold coffee. The more he thought about it, the less surprising it seemed that Wayne had emerged from Arkham as stable as he appeared. How many hours in the field had he logged with Arsenal or Green Arrow? Had he ever had to deal with both of them at the same time? Crap, it was no wonder the man preferred to work alone.

It was going to be interesting to see what Wayne's civilian acquaintances were going to say. Interesting, but—Chiarello thought to himself—probably useless. How often had they ever seen the guy? Still, it was his job to conduct a thorough investigation, and he was going to cover every base.

His phone rang, jerking him out of his thoughts and he picked up. "Chiarello."

"Sawyer, here."

He reached automatically for a pad and pen. "Go ahead, Commissioner."

"Just checking how your investigation's proceeding."

Chiarello sighed. "It's moving."

"Will you need to speak with Mr. Wayne again?"

He frowned, thinking about some of the things he'd been learning over the last thirty-some hours. "It seems likely," he said slowly. "Why?"

"Dr. Cinar informs me that he's scheduled Wayne's assessment for Sunday. I thought you might want to be aware—and consider scheduling Wayne for Saturday evening, if possible."

Chiarello laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, Wayne's been pretty cooperative overall. I guess having him stick around after the shrink is done with him would be cruel and unusual." He considered. "Yeah, I've pretty much got Saturday booked solid until five. If I'm asking Wayne back, it'll have to be after that."

"Make it six-thirty, then," Sawyer said with finality.

She hung up almost as soon as he responded with a "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

Jim was rolling his eyes when he let him in. "It's good you're here," he greeted Dick as he jogged Helena against his shoulder. "Maybe you can talk some sense into them."

Dick flinched at the loud voices emanating from the study. "What's going on?"

Jim started to say something, but broke off with a sigh of exasperation. "I swear, you don't want to know," he said with feeling. "They went up to the attic to find some old records to play for Helena—it seems that Bruce has quite the collection packed away." He shifted Helena to his other shoulder.

"Here," Dick reached out. "I can take her."

Jim passed her over without a word of complaint. "Thanks."

Helena seemed about to protest the new arrangement, until Dick smiled down at her, hoisted her up in the air, and seated her piggyback on his shoulders. She giggled and grabbed a fistful of his hair. Dick winced.

"Sorry," he said, bouncing lightly from one foot to the other. "You were saying?"

Jim's lips twitched for a moment. Then he sighed. "Damned if I know. One minute they're playing the album, and Helena's loving it, and the next..."

The voices were getting louder. Dick shook his head. "Come on, Helena," he said taking a firm grip on her legs. "Let's see if we can figure out what's happening."

* * *

As he strode toward the study, his frown deepened. He could hear the words now, but they didn't seem to be making sense.

"I keep telling you," Selina was snarling, "it's the right foot first. Best foot forward!

Bruce's voice, softer but no less intense, snapped back, "it goes from weakest to strongest. Therefore, it _should_ be the left foot first, as it is in every other version I've ever heard."

"Well, Darling, _I'm_ left-handed," Selina shot back, as Dick nervously pulled the door open, "and if you ask me, there's one version that finally got it right!" She turned and saw Dick. "Fine. We'll ask him! _He_ knows!"

"As do I," Bruce retorted. "It's the left foot!"

Dick blinked. "Huh?" Then his eye fell on the album jacket that was resting on the sofa. His jaw dropped. "The... You're fighting over..." Words failed him. "The _Hokey Pokey_? Is _that_ was this is all about?" He closed his eyes with a moan. "I did not just say that."

They looked at each other. Selina giggled. Bruce's lips twitched. Helena crowed. And a moment later, Jim smiled as he heard the shouts of laughter emanating from the study.

* * *

"I'm not going to ask why you didn't mention getting served with a restraining order," Dick said, after they had all calmed down somewhat.

Bruce's expression turned thunderous once more. "I appreciate your concern," he said. "But tell Barbara that I would prefer that she stopped running these checks."

"She didn't," Dick replied.

"And I would have expected you to place a bigger premium on my privacy."

"It wasn't me, either," Dick sighed. "It was Ron Chester."

It wasn't often that Dick had the pleasure of catching Bruce off-guard. "Chester?" Bruce repeated, startled. "What in the world does he have to do with..."

Dick slid the album over to the next sofa cushion and sat down where it had been. "Have a seat, Bruce. It's kind of a long story..."

* * *

After Dick finished explaining what Chester had told him, there was a long silence. Then...

"Clayface owes me a favor," Selina growled softly. "I can call it in any time."

Bruce gave her a hard look. "No."

"But, just think of it for a second. Paxton walks into Gotham National and hands a hold-up note to the teller. They catch it all on film." She sniffed. "See how he likes it." At Bruce's scowl, she held up her hands. "Okay, okay. Just fantasizing. Sheesh."

Bruce shook his head, but neither Dick nor Selina missed the fleeting smile. "I didn't tell you," he said, "partly because I didn't want you to worry. I'd called Rae, and she seemed more irritated than concerned." He sighed. "Also," he looked at Selina, "as much as I would prefer to deal with this matter directly, I can't be seen to be in violation of the restraining order, for however long as it's in effect. That would extend to anyone associated with me taking matters into their own hands." His lips twitched. "It's not that I don't trust you. This forced inactivity is... frustrating. I didn't want to share a problem with you that you couldn't do a thing to solve."

Dick smiled. "Okay, for future reference? I can deal. Share with me. After Ark..." He stopped. "Never mind."

Bruce slumped. "You don't have to remind me," he said quietly. "I've put you through enough of that."

"Bruce, for... Okay, look. Instead of thinking about stuff you can't go back and change, start realizing that, if I dealt with something worse for almost two years, I can _probably_ handle this too. No offense, but it's like you're freaking out over my walking a balance beam when you've seen me on the high wire. At least this will be over soon."

Bruce nodded. "The hearing is in a week. I... _we_ just need to hold on until then."

Selina frowned. "But with Paxton hiring False Face..."

"That won't be an issue," Bruce said, turning back to face Dick. "Now that we know what he's planning, we can play this the way we did when I first got out of Arkham: I'll find some reason to be at GCPD headquarters. They may call me in, but if they don't, I can always discuss one of the cold cases with Montoya. That gives me an alibi—"

"Yeah," Selina said. "Unless they take it one step further. Suppose," she said, "just for one minute that you _were_ stalking her. And you wanted to keep doing it, either despite the restraining order or because of it. Bruce, there are plenty of celebrity impersonators out there making a pretty good living. Suppose her lawyer," she looked at Dick, "you said Paxton's paying Ryerson's attorney fees?"

Dick nodded. "According to Chester."

"Yeah. If I were in that lawyer's shoes, I'd say that Bruce set the whole thing up in order to scare the hell out of Ryerson and get away with it. I have no clue whether that line would hold up, but if you were spotted in two places at once, then who's to say which sighting was genuine?"

Bruce nodded glumly. "That's possible," he admitted.

"Yeah, but not very likely." Dick grinned. "Fortunately, once I found out what was going on, I figured out a way to nip this whole thing in the bud, give you your alibi—and by the way, you _will_ be called in on Saturday night. Sorry about that, but it's the best way—and, with luck, leave Paxton fuming. Did you know that Barry got his detective shield last year?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "He never mentioned it, no."

"Well, he did. So, once I found out that he was going to be in Gotham anyway, he and I set something up."

Bruce listened carefully to Dick's explanation. Finally, he nodded slowly. "It's a good plan," he said. "Only it doesn't go far enough."

"What? We stop False Face, Chester legit gets to say he never showed up. You've got an airtight defense, the restraining order gets overturned, and we all call it a day."

"And Paxton gets away with it."

Dick sighed. "Yeah, but now that we know what he's up to, we can be on our guard. It's not like the old days. I can't crash into his bedroom window and snarl at him—not when he's got a pretty good idea who's under the cowl."

"No, I realize that," Bruce said. "But if you make a few minor alterations to what you have planned, then..."

As Bruce kept talking, Dick's eyes widened. "Now that," he said, "that is absolute gold. Okay, you've sold me. We'll run it by Barry when he gets here."

Bruce nodded. "You were planning on staying for supper, then."

"Well, until supper," Dick said. "Wally and Linda are eating with us. I sort of figured—no offense, but I didn't want another round of 'my, how you've grown.'" He looked down. "It makes me feel silly. And old."

Bruce snorted. "How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" He sighed. "I may need that spar on Saturday night, if you aren't too tired after patrol."

"Yeah, I really am sorry about—"

"Don't be. Jim already told me that it's fairly common to have a candidate come back for another session to shed light on what may have been said during the other interviews." He sighed. "It used to be easier."

"Easier?"

"I'm walking a fine line, Dick. The GCPD wants full disclosure, and—while I loathe the process—I can at least understand the rationale. When I've had to construct a profile on someone, my own investigations have been no less intrusive. They've just been conducted without that person's knowledge."

"So..."

"So, some answers aren't mine to disclose. Let's just say that if Chiarello starts asking questions about my record with the League, or why I left, I doubt he'll be satisfied with a vague 'I thought my talents were better used elsewhere.' There are some things that I do not," he closed his eyes, "wish to discuss. Or relive." He let out a long breath. "And I'm not sure that I _can_ discuss them without disclosing certain issues that I don't believe Chiarello needs to know."

Dick studied him pensively for a moment. Finally, he took a deep breath. "Which do you want first; the good news or the bad news?"

* * *

"I appreciate your taking the time to come in, Mr. Paxton," Chiarello said politely.

"Not at all. Although, I have to admit that I was more than a bit perturbed when you explained to me the reason for your call."

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"Well, yes. You said that Bruce is toying with the idea of becoming a police officer, if I recall correctly?"

Chiarello gave him a tight-lipped smile. "You could say that. Like I said on the phone, I just need about an hour of your time to help us with our background investigation."

"No trouble at all," Paxton replied affably. He frowned. "May I ask whether Bruce listed me as a reference?"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge whether you're here at his request or ours. Why? Is there a problem?"

Paxton shook his head. "No, I suppose not. Just... if he had, I'd be somewhat surprised is all."

"You don't like him?"

Paxton laughed. "Well, it's hard to say, really. It's not as if I ever really spent much time with him."

"But you've been on his company's board of directors for... how many years has it been?"

"Eight," Paxton replied, lacing his fingers together. Then he laughed again and spread his hands wide. "But I doubt if Bruce and I logged more than eight hours together in those eight years worth of meetings. He always had something more important to take care of, like golf. Or sleeping."

"Or being Batman?"

Paxton chuckled. "We generally conducted business during the daylight hours. If he preferred sleeping at that time, well, I guess that would say a bit about where his priorities lay, now, wouldn't it?"

"Do you have any reservations about his becoming an officer?"

Paxton sighed. "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I'm qualified to answer that question, seeing as I never really knew the man. On the other hand, well, he did spend that time in Arkham, which would tend to cast doubt on his stability. And has it occurred to you that, by bringing Batman onto your... staff, you're handing him the opportunity to conduct himself in much the same way he did in the past—only this time, with full official sanction?"

Chiarello's face betrayed nothing. "How do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, he did have a way of shadowing people for days on end, hoping to intimidate confession out of them, from what I understand. And now, well, just a few days ago, I had a hysterical woman sobbing on my telephone line about how Bruce keeps hounding her and won't give her a moment's peace because she protested at his hearing. She even filed a restraining order against him. Honestly, I hope she was misreading the situation, and Bruce's actions were completely innocent. Because if the media were to get wind of the restraining order, and find out that your people were actually contemplating giving him a badge? And a _gun_?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't want to be in your department's shoes, if word of _that_ got out."


	9. Chapter 8: Past Regrets

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta.

Movin' On written by Phillip White and D. Vincent Williams. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their _Rascal Flatts_ album (Lyric Street, 2000).

Spoilers: _Brave and the Bold #28._ The dialogue in the flashback was written by J. Michael Straczynski and is quoted directly from the issue. References to _No Man's Land_, _Batman/Huntress: Cry for Blood, _and _Identity Crisis._

_I've dealt with my ghosts and I've faced all my demons  
Finally content with a past I regret  
I've found you find strength in your moments of weakness  
For once I'm at peace with myself  
I've been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long..._

—_Phillip White, D. Vincent Williams, "Movin' On"_

**Chapter 8: Past Regrets**

"Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Paxton," Chiarello said with a polite smile. "Should I need to get in touch with you again, may I contact you at work?"

Paxton shook the extended hand firmly. "I'm just happy to have been of some assistance," he said. "At least, I hope I have been," he added, looking a bit dismayed. "You must understand—Bruce is a fine man, and I was sorry to hear of his breakdown. It's heartening to know that he seems to have received the help that he so desperately needed. But I'd be remiss if I didn't share my concerns. I mean, imagine what he might do if he came upon some young man that he'd had dealings with in the past and..."

Chiarello nodded understandingly, as Paxton reiterated the same worries he'd been voicing throughout the interview. Inside, though, he winced. It wasn't as though Paxton was saying anything that half the cops in the precinct weren't whispering about. Still, it was disappointing to hear. Once the executive had finished speaking, Chiarello rephrased his question. "How may I contact you, in the event that we need to speak again?"

Paxton smiled. "Oh, of course. Do you have a pen and paper handy? Let me give you my personal cell phone. You can call me with respect to this matter any time..."

* * *

After Paxton left, Chiarello frowned to himself. Over the course of the last couple of days, he'd been slowly putting aside the concerns that had bothered him when Sawyer had first assigned him to the investigation. Those concerns were being rekindled now.

Wayne had basically left his company in the hands of people he trusted and barely paid attention to it for years. If Fox had been a man with less integrity or ability, Wayne could have been bankrupted years ago. Had he been more suspicious, Wayne's nocturnal activities might have come to light a hell of a lot sooner. Either way, Paxton had brought up a valid point: when Wayne wanted to pursue something, he poured all his energies into it, yes—but he paid scant attention to his other responsibilities.

Looked at in that light, Chiarello had to wonder whether Wayne's leaving the League to found his own team wasn't part of that pattern. He'd thought he could do more good elsewhere, and he'd trusted the League to carry out their mandate without him. His reasons might have been good ones, but the fact remained that he'd had responsibilities, and he'd delegated them without a second thought. How would the GCPD fare, if Wayne decided that there was something else that he'd rather be doing?

Chiarello sighed. Was it fair to the taxpayers to invest in Wayne's training, when there was a good chance that he wasn't going to stay the course?

He looked at the time. Huntress would be here in less than an hour, but he still had time to grab a coffee. He checked his voicemail. Lucius Fox was confirming for tomorrow. And Timothy Drake was apologizing for not getting back to him sooner, but he was currently in Switzerland and wouldn't be back for two weeks. Chiarello sighed again. That was one interview to conduct over the telephone.

He left messages for both callers and went off in search of his coffee.

* * *

_Interviewee: Huntress_

MC: You're not one of his... partners, correct?

H: Not in any sense of the word.

MC: But you work in this city.

H: Less than I used to.

MC: Is there a reason for that?

H: Well... I used to operate solo, and now I'm part of a team. We travel.

MC: So this has nothing to do with Mr. Wayne's approval or disapproval?

H: Who've you been talking to?

MC: Why?

H: Look, we've had our differences, but they're long past.

MC: What kind of differences?

H: Did you notice I carry a crossbow? It doesn't fire Nerf-bolts.

MC: So you take a... harder line than he did.

H: Look, no offense, but it's not like any police force I know carries water pistols. I don't go out there with a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mentality, but if someone's going to try deadly force on me, I'll do what's necessary to defend myself.

MC: How often have you found it... necessary?

H: Actually, less than I thought I would when I first put on Kevlar. Batman made it clear from the start that if I killed anyone on his watch, he'd bring me in.

MC: Did you resent that?

H: Oh, yeah.

MC: But you went along with it.

H: Would you want him ticked off at you?

MC: Are you afraid of getting him ticked off?

H: I'm afraid of being locked up under the same roof as a lot of people I helped get locked up. Crooked cops don't do well in general population. I don't think the odds would be too high in my favor either.

MC: So you played by his rules.

H: That's right.

MC: Because you feared for your safety if you didn't.

H: No.

MC: But you said he'd bring you in.

H: He would have tried. I don't think I could take him in a fight, but I didn't fear. Not for my safety. Not from him.

MC: Then what did you fear?

H: [Pause] Letting him down.

MC: Has he ever let you down?

H: Ye-no... yes. Let's just say it was mutual.

MC: Clarify?

H: During the No Man's Land, I operated as Batgirl—and that was when I realized that playing by his rules wasn't just something I was doing because he insisted. Because, for months, he wasn't around. Were you here then?

MC: Bludhaven.

H: Ah, I see. Well, let's just say it made _Lord of the Flies_ look like _Leave it to Beaver_, shall we? I mean, if there was ever a time when I could justify killing as self-defense and nobody would have said a word against it, it was then. There was no law, no order... nothing. And through it all... I... If I was dressing the part of a Bat, I felt like I had to act it, too.

MC: Why did you?

H: Huntress didn't have the same brand recognition. And... the city wanted him. He wasn't there. I figured with the cowl, if I stuck to the shadows, maybe I could feed off his reputation.

MC: And when he came back, he felt that you'd...

H: No. Actually, when he came back, he accepted me. Until he left me to hold the fort, and I got outnumbered. Three people died. They were... hung up on a wall as an example.

MC: And he blamed you.

H: He held us both responsible.

MC: Both?

H: Me for not being able to save them. Himself for... well... I thought it was for trusting me.

MC: It wasn't?

H: I kept telling him I could handle things—acting like I could. When I couldn't, he told me to lose the cowl, but I think he blamed himself for overestimating me.

MC: He told you that?

H: No. If he had, I probably would've seen if he'd reinforced the Kevlar since the last time I shot him.

MC: You shot him?

H: Despite everything I've said about him, that actually was an accident. I got caught off balance and released the bolt without meaning to. He wasn't expecting it. I wasn't expecting it.

MC: Did he bear you any ill-will after he recovered?

H: No. He believed me.

MC: And there was no resentment?

H: None.

MC: How long did it take you to earn his trust?

_Interviewee: The Flash_

F: Not all that long. I used to be Kid Flash. Robin and I were pretty close on the Teen Titans. We hung out. So, Robin got to know my family and I got to know his.

MC: How did Batman react when you became the Flash?

F: Well, we were all mourning my mentor's death. And... funny. I thought nobody would believe I could fill his boots. Maybe that was what everyone else was thinking—I don't know. I know that I was thinking it. I was a kid. Maybe not legally, but I sure didn't feel ready to take his place. Batman... it was sort of hard to know how much was me projecting and how much was him doubting me.

MC: So he did doubt you.

F: At first. But, like I said, he wasn't the only one.

MC: What made him change?

F: I... guess he saw me in action. And, well, he'd worked with my mentor. I know that Robin had issues with getting Batman to recognize that he'd grown up. We're the same age. It wouldn't be that off-base if he saw me as a kid, too. Heck. Having the name "Kid Flash" probably didn't help me. But once I stopped comparing myself to my mentor, I think he did, also. Or maybe it was around the time he admitted that Robin wasn't a kid anymore. Look, I can't really say when he stopped doubting me, but if he didn't stop, he at least kept quiet about it.

MC: Did you find him easy to work with?

F: Depends on what you mean by easy. He has a way of knowing what you're capable of doing, even if you don't know yourself. I... you know those novelty t-Shirt stores? There was this one I saw that read "I will stop demanding the impossible when you stop achieving it." I almost bought it for him. Then I realized he'd never wear it anyway.

MC: So, how did it work? He gave orders and expected them to be followed?

F: He came up with plans. We'd follow them because they worked.

MC: And if you didn't want to go along with them?

F: Then we knew he'd be right there to say "I told you so" when they blew up in our faces. Or at least think it.

MC: And when HIS plans blew up in your faces?

F: It didn't happen often, but when it did, he took it seriously.

MC: How seriously?

F: What, you mean on a scale of one to ten? Twelve. I don't understand the question.

MC: How closely have you worked with him?

_Interviewee: Detective Barry Allen_

BA: Fairly closely. There were times when our department was stuck on a case. As you're aware, the Flash and the Central City Police Department have a good working relationship. But if we had a problem we couldn't solve, there would be times when the Flash would bring in the Batman to have a look.

MC: How did that go down with your superiors?

BA: I'm not really sure. I work with a great team of people. Professional, well-trained, extremely good at what they do. And they're all detectives, either officially or otherwise. So, I can't help thinking that they noticed my solve rate going up a bit whenever Batman was in town.

MC: And they went along with it?

BA: He got the evidence we needed.

MC: And you verified that it was legit?

BA: Yes.

MC: Always?

BA: Yes.

MC: Was it ever too good to be true?

BA: I double-checked it. If anyone had ever asked me, point-blank, how I got my hands on the proof I needed...

MC: How could you double-check it?

BA: By forgetting that I wore a lab-coat and not a shield. Before Batman went in, Flash would bring me along. Batman's suit had recording equipment, including an AV feed. I'd be nearby watching. He'd go first, check for booby traps, and, once he knew that there weren't any, I'd come in.

MC: Wasn't that a bit dangerous?

BA: With Batman and the Flash having my back? Not really.

MC: Did you know he was Bruce Wayne?

BA: Um... Okay. When his identity was made public, it didn't come as a shock to me. I admit I hadn't put two and two together, but... well... if Batman was ever in Central or Keystone for longer than a single night, it seemed like Bruce Wayne was there on business during the day. The thing is, I didn't have a lot of dealings with Bruce Wayne. I'd just see an article in the business pages speculating about why he was in town. So, maybe I should have been suspicious of the coincidence, but most of the time? Batman _did_ get things taken care of in one night. He didn't always solve the crime, but he was able to show me what path we might want to pursue.

MC: And now you have your shield?

BA: I... [10-second pause] I got used to being in the thick of things. I decided it was worth taking the detective's exam.

MC: When'd you pass it?

BA: Four months ago.

MC: Ah, you're still on probe! How are you liking it so far?

BA: It's funny. I always thought I was happy in the crime lab. Now that I've got a taste of working homicide... I can't imagine not doing this.

MC: I thought you were here investigating some sort of mob link.

BA: Yeah, organized crime isn't really an issue in Central anymore. But we've had a couple of bodies turn up recently. The victims were killed execution-style, and the investigation points to a Gotham organized crime connection. Since it's homicide, CCPD put me on the case, and since there's a Gotham connection and your people have more experience dealing with mob shootings... here I am on temporary assignment.

MC: Lucky you. Well... welcome to Gotham. And, getting back to the matter at hand... If Mr. Wayne was applying to join the Central City PD, and you were on the hiring panel, would you pass him?

BA: In a microsecond.

MC: Thank you, Detective.

* * *

Hal was lounging against one of the stone lions that stood guard over the steps outside the GCPD building when Barry emerged. "You're really going to make me go through with this."

Barry shook his head. "I can't _make_ you do anything, Hal. Least of all, something we should have done years ago."

Hal slumped. "I know. What are you going to say?"

"I'm still working on it," Barry admitted. "But I'm pretty sure 'I'm sorry,' is going to be one of the key points."

"Are you?" Hal asked bleakly. "Or are you just sorry he remembers it all now? Because I've been asking myself that question for the last few days. If we had it to do over, would we change anything?"

Barry sighed. "I'd like to think I would. I don't _know,_ but I'd like to believe that if I'd voted to carry out a decision that I knew _then_ was more 'the lesser of two evils' than 'the greater good', this time, I'd try to state my case instead of covering it up."

Hal nodded. "I had to deal with a lot of questions like that when I was the Spectre," he admitted. "I still don't have all the answers."

Barry took a deep breath. "You don't have to come. Dick already told him. So, if you were worrying how to break it to him about what you told Chiarello, you can stop."

Hal pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. "We both know that was never going to be the hard part." He sighed. "Okay. Let's go."

* * *

Bruce kept his face expressionless when he opened the front door. His eyes flicked from Hal to Barry, before he stood aside to let them come in. He ushered them both to the study and sank into a leather easy chair.

Hal started to follow suit, until Barry gripped his arm, pulling him back up.

One of Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "There's no need to stand on ceremony," he said mildly.

Barry took a deep breath. "I...that is, we..." He forced himself to maintain eye contact. "Fifteen years ago, we messed up in a major way. I... know you remember that now. I never forgot it." He exhaled.

Bruce's expression hardened. "Are you sure you want to bring this up?" he demanded.

Barry winced, but his voice stayed steady. "I think I have to."

"Why? Are you somehow under the impression that explaining your actions now can possibly alter what went before?"

Barry swallowed hard. "No. I know it won't. But if you've let me get this far, I... I really hope you'll let me finish. Look, when I called you, I didn't know if you'd even want to know me or if you'd just hang up the phone. Frankly, I wouldn't have blamed you if you _had_ hung up, instead of inviting me here." He tore his gaze away and looked at the floor. "Maybe an apology doesn't even begin to cover it, but that doesn't let me off from trying to make one."

He forced himself to meet Bruce's eyes once more. They were ice-cold, betraying nothing. He swallowed again and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Bruce. Sorry for keeping my mouth shut after the mindwipe. Sorry for panicking when you caught us in the act, and for voting the way I did. And... maybe I can claim extenuating circumstances for why I cast that deciding vote when it came to lobotomizing Dr. Light, but it doesn't change the fact that, moment of weakness or not, I did cast it. And I'm sorry that I did—not just sorry you barged in on us. I'm sorry I agreed to it in the first place."

"We both are," Hal said.

Barry shook his head slowly. "You voted against it, Hal."

"Yeah," Hal replied. "The lobotomy. But as far as the mindwipe goes..." He glanced nervously at Bruce. "What he said. I know I can be a jerk sometimes, but I can't believe I was that much of one. Sorry."

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. For a long moment, he was silent. He opened his eyes again to see both men waiting apprehensively for his reply. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Have you apologized to Wally?" he asked.

The other two men stared blankly at him. "Huh?"

"How about Arthur? Diana? Kyle?" The names came faster now. "J'onn. Eel. Clark. And every other member of the League. Because I honestly don't know whether I would have developed my... protocols, if I hadn't known, on some primal level, the lengths that any of you might go to in order to cover up a misstep. I've checked my records. I _didn't _begin to create those contingency plans until several months after the event. Of course," he continued, "the irony is that when those plans fell into the wrong hands, they injured people who had nothing to do with the earlier incident." He opened his eyes. "I... prefer not to keep grudges. For that reason alone, I can forgive you. After everything else that's happened to all of us in the last fifteen years, I..." He took another breath. His lips twitched. "I know _I'm_ not the same person I was fifteen years ago—and I haven't had the same... life-changing experiences that the two of you have. If you need my forgiveness that badly, it's yours. But don't think that the air between us is the only air that needs clearing."

"Point taken," Barry said. "And Wally and I _have_ talked," he added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he remembered just how painful that conversation had been. "But you're right about the others. It should have been addressed long ago. It will be."

"You see that as your... penance?" Bruce inquired.

Barry considered. "No. I see it is as the right thing to do, even if it's been a long time coming. Better late than never."

He saw it then. For a fleeting instant, Bruce smiled and gave him a quick approving nod. Then the smile vanished, replaced by Bruce's earlier poker face. "All right. Let's move on."

Barry blinked, momentarily unsure whether Bruce had actually said what he thought he'd heard.

Hal cleared his throat. "Um... I guess Dick already told you I spilled the beans to your interrogator... I mean investigator... I..."

Bruce held up a hand. "I think you were right the first time," he said, smiling once more. "Thanks."

"What?"

Bruce nodded. "I wouldn't have aired any of that in front of Chiarello. I've had to be candid about my own shortcomings, but I was prepared to draw the line at discussing any League... secrets. Thanks for absolving me of the need."

"You mean, you're not mad?"

"_I'm_ not," Bruce confirmed.

"But you might want to avoid Ollie for the next few weeks," Barry broke in.

"And Katar," Bruce added, his smile broadening, as he stood up and took a step forward.

"Oh, yeah," Barry grinned back. He reached out to clasp Bruce's shoulder. "It's good to see you again."

Bruce returned the gesture. "Likewise." He looked away for a moment. "Barry, I regret that Dick had to leave a few minutes before you arrived. I'll fill you in on what we discussed later. For now... I know I told you to come _after_ supper, but as it happens, we haven't eaten, yet. If you'd both care to join us...?"

Hal blinked. "Um... Sure. Wait a minute._ We? Us?_ As in, not just you?"

Bruce smiled. "Exactly."

* * *

The table was set for four. Five, if one counted the high chair in the corner. Barry's eyebrows shot up when Selina entered from the kitchen, holding Helena firmly by the hand. "You never mentioned... I mean... is she...?"

Bruce bent down and picked up his daughter. "This is Helena," he said quietly. "And... I suppose she is. Although I'd prefer you to avoid mentioning it, should Detective Chiarello wish to interview you further."

"Seriously?" Hal scoffed. "I know he's calling in just about everyone who knows you, but do you really think he's going to invite her for a session?"

Unconsciously, Bruce wrapped his arms more tightly around Helena. "Look," he said through clenched teeth, "even with all the precautions that we've taken—even with J'onn securing Sawyer's permission to enhance the security at GCPD—word about my... career change is eventually going to get out, and probably sooner rather than later. I've been living with the knowledge that I'm now an easier target than ever before. I deal with that because I have no choice." His expression softened for an instant. "Selina accepts the risk. But I don't want any mention of Helena in Chiarello's notes or in his thoughts. Is that clear?"

Hal and Barry nodded.

"I mean it, Jordan. He got to you once. I would suggest finding a reason to be off-planet before you let him get to you again."

"Oh, come on," Hal protested. "I thought he was just going to be asking about your character. I wasn't prepared for—"

"Exactly," Bruce cut him off. "_Be_ prepared, or be far, far away. Am I being clear?"

Hal nodded, his eyes mirroring Bruce's intensity. "You got it."

"All right." He strode past the two men to settle Helena into the high chair, pretending not to notice as Hal sent a friendly wave in his daughter's direction. "I suppose you want to sit next to her," he sighed.

Hal blinked. "Could I?"

"If you don't mind her tendency to share her meal with anyone in close proximity," Bruce said good-naturedly. "According to the child development websites, her hand-eye coordination is in the upper percentile for her age."

Barry laughed. "Why isn't that surprising?"

Hal shrugged. "It's not like I can't protect myself..."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Hal cast a baleful glance across the table at Bruce. "You remember that yellow things aren't a problem anymore, right?" He asked as the umpteenth pineapple tidbit bounced off of a hastily-improvised green helmet.

"You wanted to sit there," Bruce deadpanned.

"You set me up."

Barry guffawed. Selina grinned.

"Yes, Jordan," Bruce said with a long-suffering sigh. "I colluded with a toddler for long hours, teaching her how to map the trajectory of chopped fruit with absolute precision. You caught me."

Selina burst out laughing.

"You see!" Hal said, standing up and pointing dramatically in Bruce's direction. "He even admits it!"

"He warned you," Barry pointed out. "I'm a witness."

"So..." Selina said, nearly succeeding in keeping a straight face, "_Detective _Allen, is it, now?"

Barry ducked his head. "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I hope you don't mind my curiosity, but what did it take to get you out of the lab after all those years?"

Barry hesitated.

"Oh," Selina forced herself to keep smiling. "I'm sorry. I hadn't realized that it was something that I wasn't supposed to ask."

"No," Barry said. "No, it's fine. It's... sort of a long story, but I don't mind telling it." He took a deep breath. "It's just something that you might call an... unconventional story."

Selina frowned. "_How_ unconventional? I mean, you sort of... died for a bit, as I understand it. Does this have something to do with an afterlife of some kind?"

Barry shook his head. "More like a 'before,' actually. It wasn't long after I'd... returned," he began. "I was called to Belgium to assist a scientist who wanted to test a multispectrum laser that he'd been working on. It was supposed to change the speed of light by altering its vibration properties—"

"Sounds like Garton's work," Bruce mused aloud.

Barry blinked. "Yes, exactly." He took a moment to regain his train of thought. "In order to test the laser, Dr. Garton needed someone who could run at near light-speed while holding a device to monitor the hypothetical changes. So, I found myself in the fields of Ardennes, ready to further the cause of science when something unexpected happened." He paused and looked around the table. "The changes interacted with my own vibrating frequency and sent me back in time, trapping me in 1944."

Bruce frowned. "You couldn't get back?"

"Not unless I could match the same speed I'd been running at when I arrived—and I couldn't—when I got there, my leg was broken in two places. It was winter, and it was about all I could do to speed up my molecules so I wouldn't freeze to death. As it turned out, I had other worries. I almost got killed by a German patrol, and no sooner did I evade them than I ran into the Blackhawks, who mistook me for an enemy spy." He sighed. "It didn't help matters much that when I identified myself as 'The Flash,' they knew what Jay Garrick's costume looked like." He looked down. "Fortunately, one of the team had seen the whole thing and vouched for me. I figured there was no way that I'd be able to fake being native to the time—not when I was stuck there until my leg healed up. I might have been able to manage for a day or two, but weeks? When they were already suspicious? I didn't want to bank on a fair trial if they decided I was a spy after all, so I told them as much as I could."

"Which was evidently enough so that they believed you," Bruce commented drily.

"I got lucky. Their leader realized that a lot of what was top secret in their time should be common knowledge to me—if I really was from the future. And it turned out that they'd had a hand in smuggling some German scientists out of the country to work on a top secret project in New Mexico. He asked me to name it." Barry smiled faintly. "You have no idea how thankful I was that I'd actually paid attention in history class."

"Well, the Manhattan Project _is_ an easy one," Selina pointed out.

Barry nodded. "Yes and no. Everyone's heard of it, but not everybody remembers where it was. I did." He sighed. "And that's when things started to get intense. We were ambushed by German foot soldiers. Blackhawk shoved a gun in my hand and told me they needed all the help they could get."

Bruce frowned. "But, you didn't—"

Barry closed his eyes. "Not then, no. I chucked a whole bunch of bricks at the enemy. Took them all out with no deaths. And Blackhawk reamed me for it." He winced, the scene replaying once more in his head as he told it over, the images and voices as crisp and clear as if he'd just been there yesterday. "I tried to explain why I hadn't fired, and..."

"_...You think this is a game or something? We're in the middle of a war. They shoot at us. We shoot at them. We kill them or they kill us."_

"_Killing isn't what I do. It's not..."_

"_Then it damn well better GET to be what you do—and fast. Because you're an American in the middle of a war, and if you don't pick up a gun and fight, then you're a coward and an impediment to the war effort—and I'll shoot you myself."_

Barry opened his eyes again, wondering if the others could hear the way his heart thudded in his chest. "He meant it, too. Maybe if I'd had my speed power back, I would have done things differently. No... I would have gone back to the present. Using my powers to influence the outcome of the war... the repercussions to the timestream might have been... Rip Hunter has horror stories he can tell about those. But I didn't have my speed power. And I did have the gun. And, I still don't know if I made the right decision, but I made one I could live with. One I've had to live with ever since."

"You took the gun," Bruce stated.

"I took the gun. I put on a U.S. infantry uniform, and I took the gun. The Flash doesn't kill. Doesn't carry a gun. But... Barry Allen, a soldier in the U.S. army in the middle of World War Two, was a different story."

He forced himself to meet Bruce's eyes, bracing himself for the anger and indignation he knew had to be there. Instead, he saw only sadness.

"_Did _you kill?" Bruce asked softly.

Barry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "I don't honestly know. I had a gun. I fired it. So did everyone with me. And a lot of the people we were firing at fell down and... and didn't get back up. I'm not sure whether any of the bullets from my gun were responsible for it, but I... I can't believe I was a consistently lousy shot. It's probable." He slumped. "Almost definite, I'd say."

"Anyway, eventually my leg healed up and I made it back to the present. The thing is, it took me a while to admit it at first, but I don't think it's possible to go through something like that and not have it change you. And no, I don't mean that I decided I liked pulling a trigger so much that I decided to go through the academy so I could get issued a revolver. You're going through the process now, and I think you can agree that they're doing their best to weed out people who actually _enjoy _it. But working in a lab means that you aren't first on the scene. Sometimes, the people who are get sloppy or careless, or they miss things. I can only analyze the stuff that actually makes it back to my department."

He sighed. "Believe me when I tell you that there were a lot of times in the past that I'd thought about getting my shield, just because I figured I'd probably be of more use to an investigation if I was leading it. But knowing that I'd have to qualify with a firearm was always the deal-breaker." He shook his head.

"After I came back from 1944, it wasn't. I don't want you to think that I missed shooting. Or that this was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I actually had a few long talks with J'onn before I started the ball rolling. I wanted _him_ to determine that I was... stable enough to do what I was thinking before I spoke to my boss about changing tracks."

He paused. "I got my shield four months ago. Since then, I haven't had to draw a gun, much less fire one. I hope I never have to again. But if I do have to," he sighed, "then I will."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I've been trying to work on that myself," the admission came more easily than he'd expected. "Guns. I've been finding it more of a challenge than I'd initially thought."

Barry nodded. "I was wondering about how you were handling that end of things. Actually, I'm relieved to hear that you're having issues."

Bruce frowned.

"Trust me, I'd be more worried if you'd told me that you were taking to them like a duck takes to water. I saw a few soldiers like that. They... weren't people I'd have wanted to know if I'd still been stuck in the past after the war ended. Needing to kill is one thing. Liking it..."

"It's been a concern," Bruce admitted. "Sometimes, I wonder if I truly hate guns, or if I fear what I might become if I start using them."

"Been there, done that," Barry admitted. "Got the souvenir keychain to prove it."

The two men shared a smile. Barry's expression turned serious. "I know you don't usually like talking things out—unless that's another thing that's changed, I mean," he added, "but if it has changed, if it does, if you want to talk to someone who's been through a lot of what you're going through now, well... I'm only a couple of seconds away. You know that, right?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "I... don't believe that there's any need for you..." he glanced at Hal, who had been listening wide-eyed to the entire conversation, "...for either of you to maintain radio silence either," he said. "Of course, if it's your preference, I understand."

Hal and Barry exchanged a quick glance.

"Well," Hal said, "I guess I'll probably be around a bit more, if you don't mind. I mean, Helena is kind of cute." Something cold and wet and slippery landed on the back of his neck and began to travel down his back. He made a face. "I thought she'd run out of pineapple by now."

Bruce's lips twitched. "I'll get her another helping."

Selina giggled.

"She barely ate any," Bruce said with exaggerated innocence. "I need to be sure she's getting enough thiamin."

"Yes, dear," Selina said demurely, as Barry chuckled.

"Not to mention manganee—" He turned abruptly to the wall, shoulders shaking as he fought not to laugh.

"Very funny," Hal muttered. He looked at Helena. "How much is he paying you? I'll double it. OW!"

A plastic-coated spoon bounced off his face.

Bruce lost the fight. So did everyone else—including Hal.

* * *

Chiarello carefully placed his notes and recordings into a sturdy attaché case, locked it, and took it with him. He'd thought the interviews would never end, and he hadn't even started talking to Wayne's family, yet.

He sighed. It would be good to get home. He wished it didn't get dark so early in the winter time, though. He didn't much care for driving at night. He scooped up the second set of files and headed off to lock them in the vault, before he headed down to the parking garage.

He kept a careful eye on his surroundings as he took the long walk to the vault and then the shorter one to the elevator. The building was supposed to be secure—particularly with the new technology that Sawyer had authorized the JLA to install before the interviews had begun. She'd gone over the enhancements with him, but his eyes had started to glaze over when she'd started talking about "telepathic buffers." It didn't matter. He didn't care _how_ it all worked, so long as it did.

He took the elevator down to the parking garage and stepped out, car keys in hand, scanning carefully for anything out of the ordinary. He frowned. Something seemed off. His eyes narrowed, as his gaze panned over his surroundings.

There it was.

One of the fluorescent bulbs overhead was flickering. As he watched, it burned out altogether. There was another bulb several yards over that had apparently gone dark earlier. He made a mental note to talk to maintenance if it wasn't fixed by tomorrow and proceeded toward his parking spot, his footsteps making muffled echoes on the concrete floor. He was passing a parked sedan, when a loud bang startled him. Instinctively, he dove for cover.

That was when he heard a faint click and felt something dig into his shoulder blades. "The briefcase," a harsh voice whispered. "Now!"


	10. Chapter 9: Reckoning

_How swiftly those who've made a pact  
Can come to overlook the fact  
Or wish the reckoning be delayed…_

_…you're walking on the pavement cracks.  
Don't know what's gonna come to pass. Now y'know the devil's got your number.  
Y'know he's gonna find y'.  
Y'know he's right behind y',  
He's starin' through your windows…_

_—Willy Russell, "Shoes upon the Table"_

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to Dungeonwriter for assistance in villainy and Xenith for some free legal advice! And thanks to Aiyokusama for advice about Chiarello's briefcase and some assistance with the parking garage scene!

"Shoes upon the Table" written by Willy Russell. Performed by Warwick Evans on the _Blood Brothers_ Original Broadway Cast album (RCA Victor Broadway, 1993).

**Chapter 9—Reckoning**

Chiarello froze. He'd known that something like this could happen when he'd accepted this assignment. He wasn't entirely surprised by his current circumstances. If anything, he was annoyed at having been caught off-guard.

"Give me the case!" the voice repeated harshly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chiarello saw a heavyset man crouching next to him. There was a layer of mud on his boots, he noted.

"I won't ask again," the voice warned.

Chiarello sighed. "I'm lying on top of it," he said, keeping his tone even. "You're going to have to let me move."

The muzzle dug deeper into his shoulder blades for a moment. Then the pressure on his spine eased as the gun withdrew. "Okay. Keep it slow. Don't give me a reason to use this."

Chiarello nodded once. Then, carefully, he rolled onto his left side, so that his back was nearly touching the car parked next to him, hefted the briefcase, and passed it over.

The gunman kept his weapon trained as he reached over and grasped the handle. "Okay," he said. "Get up. Come on, move!"

"Gimme a sec," Chiarello muttered. "I'm not as young as I used to be—agh!"

"I'm warning you..."

Chiarello groaned. "Look, Mac, I'm sorry, but I can't get up that easy anymore." He fought to keep his voice level. The guy had the briefcase. There was no reason that he'd need a hostage on top of that. So, either his attacker thought that he had additional information, beyond what was in the briefcase...

_...Or he meant to kill him in a location that wasn't crawling with cops._

Chiarello forced himself to remain calm as he continued, "Give me a minute to get some feeling back in my leg so I can stand, will you?"

The gunman cursed loudly. "Hurry it up."

Chiarello nodded. Then, with a pained expression, he braced one hand on the dusty concrete floor and began to massage his lower leg with the other.

An instant later, an ear-splitting noise erupted from the briefcase. Simultaneously, the gunman shrieked, dropped both case and weapon, and frantically clutched his left hand in his right.

"Fast enough for you?" Chiarello asked, retrieving his case and picking up the fallen gun. He rose easily and pointed it at his unresisting former assailant. "Now where can I take you where you won't be able to pull something like this for a while, and where you can have plenty of time to think about how you got to this point? Oh, geez. Guess what building is right over our heads."

The other man swallowed hard as Chiarello nodded. "All right," the backgrounder continued. "Walk ahead of me to the elevator. You here alone?"

The other man frowned. "I..."

Chiarello drew a breath. "How many and where are they?"

"Just one and he's here," a light voice said. "Sorry if we startled you." Two costumed figures emerged from between the rows of parked cars. They were supporting a third person between them—a man with his hands cuffed before him.

Chiarello frowned. "Harrier. And... Ms. Martian, is it?"

The green-skinned girl smiled. "Yes, that's right, Sir."

"Stun-alarm briefcase?" Harrier asked, with a faint note of excitement in his voice.

Chiarello nodded. "I keep the remote in an ankle holster."

"Nice."

"What are you kids doing here, anyway?" The backgrounder demanded. "This area's off-limits to the public."

Harrier didn't bat an eye. "You're carrying some pretty sensitive information around. We're watching out for you." His eyes flickered to the injured man before them. "Not that you needed us tonight."

Chiarello's frown yielded to a reluctant smile. "Thanks... but it could have been a different story if you two hadn't taken care of the backup." He exhaled noisily. "Well, if you caught him, you might as well bring him upstairs with me. Come on."

"Detective Chiarello," Ms. Martian ventured, "you're no doubt aware that the threat to you isn't just physical. I'm not the only telepath on this planet."

"I realize that," he replied with a cough, "but I think you'll excuse me if I prefer not to have any of you people messing around with my head. That's assuming you're giving me a choice," he added pointedly.

The girl sighed. "I understand. And I wish I could say that 'of course' you have a choice, only... I realize..." Her eyes flickered to their two captives. "May we speak in your office afterward?"

Chiarello let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Just let me let my wife know I'm going to be late getting home. _Again..._"

* * *

"Either of you want a coffee?" Chiarello asked, as they walked up the stairs to his office after depositing the two would-be abductors in a holding cell.

The teens politely declined. There was no further conversation until Chiarello ushered them into the room he'd been so sure he'd left behind for the day and closed the door behind them. "Okay," he said. "Talk. And if your suggestion involves giving you or anyone else access to my mind or memories, the answer's no."

Ms. Martian lowered her eyes. "You have to admit, it would make things easier."

"There are a lot of ideas that would make things 'easier'. That doesn't make them 'right'. Now do you have a Plan B, or are we done, here?"

The green-skinned girl hesitated. Then, slowly, she extended her hand and opened it to reveal a metal disc, threaded on a slender chain. "Keep it next to your skin at all times," she said. "It's a portable version of the telepathic jamming field that Martian Manhunter and I set up in this building. It's a temporary solution," she added.

"And I suppose a more permanent one would be wiping my mind of all sensitive information about you people? No dice. Besides, it wouldn't do much good. We keep recordings of all interviews on file."

"Yes," Ms. Martian nodded. "I know. Actually, a more permanent solution would be to teach you how to shield your thoughts. There are some basic techniques, which most people can learn—although I'd still recommend using the jammer as a precaution. Particularly while you're sleeping. It's waterproof," she added, as Chiarello reached for it. "And unbreakable. As is the chain."

Chiarello sighed. "And I suppose I'll need to keep wearing this for the rest of my life?"

"You said you didn't want the other options," Harrier spoke up.

"No. First of all, I don't know if I trust anyone to pick and choose which memories you're going to allow me to keep. Secondly, it seems like it wears off after a while anyway."

"Well," Ms. Martian said, "not when _I_ do it. And I don't need to erase those memories, so much as bury them." She leaned slightly forward as she spoke. "When you were a child," she began, "or even when you were older, you watched television, correct?"

"Um... I still do," Chiarello replied.

"Yes, but I suspect that the programs you watched were different. If I were to ask you now to give me a short synopsis of a specific episode that you watched some twenty years ago, you probably wouldn't be able to, right?"

"Depends on the episode, but I'll give you that point, for the sake of argument."

"Thank you," Ms. Martian smiled. "Now suppose that I were to start out by saying," she tilted her head to one side, "Hey! Remember that one when the kids got worried because the dog was eating cat food?"

Harrier's hand flew to his mouth as he coughed, but not before Chiarello saw his grin.

Ms. Martian elbowed her teammate in the ribs. "You might not remember that scene," she continued, "or think about it for years. But when someone brings it up, the memory will surface. What I propose to do would be similar, but I would take the further precaution of anchoring those memories to a specific location, namely this building. In other words, within these walls, if someone were to inquire of you regarding our... internal affairs, the relevant memories would be accessible to you. It would still be to your discretion what you choose to disclose." She sighed. "And that is the major drawback: I can't use this technique on everyone. And I won't use it on an unwilling party. Should you, of your own volition, choose to divulge your findings, the safeguards that I'm proposing will not prevent you from faxing your interview transcripts to the _Gotham Post_, or... or talking to unauthorized personnel within these walls. Or reviewing your notes off-site, for that matter—although the instant that you put them away, you will also be putting their contents out of your mind. This technique is meant to protect you from casual telepathic probes when you're in an unshielded area—by keeping that specific knowledge buried in your memories. It's somewhat akin to hiding a rare book among an assortment of other volumes in a bookcase."

Chiarello's lower lip jutted out as he considered her words. "I'll take it under advisement," he said finally, as he slipped the jammer chain over his head and then tucked the disc inside his shirt. "Thanks. Is that all for now?"

Harrier and Ms. Martian looked at one another and then back to the detective. Both nodded.

"Right." He got up. "Then I'll walk you out. Wait. Can I drop you somewhere?"

Harrier shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but we have our own transportation."

"Lucky you. So... you've been hanging around for the last couple of days, keeping an eye out?"

"Well, not us personally," Harrier said, as he and Ms. Martian followed Chiarello into the hallway, "but yes," he continued while the detective locked the office door behind them, "some of us have been keeping you under surveillance."

"I suppose I would resent that," Chiarello rumbled, "if I were too pigheaded to realize that if you hadn't been there a few minutes ago, I probably wouldn't be here now." He smiled. "You're planning on tailing my car, too?"

The two Teen Titans exchanged a guilty look. "Well, until the Aparo. Then..." Harrier frowned, "is it Superman tonight?"

"Hawkman. Unless he was called away, in which case, yes, Superman will take over."

"I'm honored." He sighed. "Fine. Go on and do what you have to. I won't try to lose you. Not tonight, anyway."

Ms. Martian laughed. "Thank you, Detective. Enjoy your drive."

* * *

Hal left after supper. Bruce waited until Selina went to put Helena to bed before motioning to Barry to accompany him down to the cave.

"Um..." Barry cleared his throat. "Look, about—"

"If you're going to apologize for not coming to visit earlier," Bruce held up a hand, "don't. I wouldn't have been amenable in Arkham. And afterwards," he shook his head, "it's unlikely that I would have been... comfortable... reconnecting."

Barry nodded slowly. "I guess I can understand that. I mean, not that it's exactly the same thing," he continued, "but I think I can _kinda _relate to some of that. After I came back, let's just say it was a readjustment. So many people I used to know seemed... different. And I wasn't sure if they'd changed, or I had, or if having been away for so long, my memories were playing tricks on me." He sighed. "There was a point when I was spending most of my workday just holed up in the crime lab and then racing to get home so I could shut myself up with a few good books and try to pretend time hadn't marched on without me." He shook his head. "Sometimes, it was like I could just slip back into the old routine... and then something stupid would remind me that I'd lost out on a few years. No more VHS tapes, or cassettes," he shook his head. "And when did cell phones get so... tiny?"

Bruce nodded. "And people expect you to be able to pick up the pieces and move on, and when you don't, they try to hide their disappointment, but..."

"...when you do, they can't let it pass without a comment on how well you're coping."

Bruce sighed. "They mean well."

"Of course."

They shared a fleeting smile. Bruce took a deep breath. "I... could use some insight," he admitted. "I'm trying to steel myself to what lies ahead if I manage to pass these... preliminaries. Jim and Dick have been open about their experiences, but yours are a bit more recent. I was wondering..."

Barry grinned, glad to be back on easier ground. "Sure. What did you want to know?"

* * *

Barbara sighed.

"Trouble?" Dick asked. "Or just tired?" Wally and Linda had been gone for an hour, but Barbara had spent the better part of the day cooking in preparation.

She looked away from her monitors and gave Dick a weary smile. "A bit of both, I think. Someone made an attempt on Chiarello, earlier. Luckily, Tim and M'Gann were in place, but now he knows we're watching."

Dick frowned. "How'd he take it?"

"Well, he's not thrilled about it, but he understands. Actually," Barbara smiled, "Tim said he was carrying a booby-trapped attaché case. Remote-controlled stun-alarm, Kevlar-exterior... it's the kind of thing we should have ordered for him."

Dick let out a low whistle. "Glad to know someone's taking this seriously. I wonder if GCPD footed the bill for it or he paid out of pocket. Those things don't come cheap."

Barbara nodded. "We can't watch out for him forever. And... He's married. One daughter—she's a sophomore at Ann Arbor."

"She's probably safer there," Dick nodded. "Okay."

"Where are you going?"

Dick was already moving toward the door, his expression grim. "Off to suit up. Then I'm going to pay a visit to GCPD holding and find out how those guys knew what Chiarello had in his briefcase. Because somehow, I don't think he's been talking about how he's spent the last couple of days to very many people, so I want to know who found out, and who else they might've told." He doubled back, features softening for a moment as his lips found hers. Then he was speeding out the door with a hasty "Don't wait up," as he crossed the threshold.

* * *

In the privacy of his den, Chiarello opened his briefcase. Noreen was in the dining room, engaged in a high-stakes conference call with a team of investors in Seoul and was unlikely to disturb him for a while. Besides, she always knocked first.

He brought his hand up to the base of his neck and felt the outline of the pendant beneath the fabric of his shirt. He sighed, debating whether he ought to suggest that Noreen take a week or two and go to South Korea to close whatever deal she was trying to make in person. She'd have questions that he wouldn't be able to answer, but she'd do it. She knew that in his line of work, he had a tendency to dig up secrets that might be safer left buried.

There was a tentative tap on his window. Chiarello took a breath and pushed aside the shade. He wasn't surprised to see who it was. He raised the glass. "You're handling my home security?" He asked the cowled figure standing outside.

Batman shook his head. "Sorry, no. But you are under protection."

"Yeah, I gathered that earlier," he remarked. "So what can I do for you?"

"Just thought you might want to know: those guys who were waiting for you in the garage? Believe it or not, it had nothing to do with Bruce. "

Chiarello raised his eyebrows. "Do tell?"

As Batman opened his mouth to speak, Chiarello held up a hand. "Look, I have neighbors, and while they're not normally nosy, I'm not sure I'd want to explain what you're doing in my backyard. Or if I could," he added in an undertone. "You want to come in?"

Batman hesitated. He appeared to come to a decision. "You're here alone?"

"No, my wife is here. That a problem?"

Batman shook his head. "It shouldn't be. I'll come around to the front."

* * *

"The first thing you should know," Batman said, almost before he'd come past the vestibule, "is that it had absolutely nothing to do with anybody's secrets."

"Really?" Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "What then?" He gestured to the cowled figure to follow him as he padded back to the den. Batman did so, waiting until they were both in the dark-paneled room with the door closed before he spoke.

"Ever heard of a guy named Brick, aka Danny Brickwell?"

The detective frowned. "Mobster, yeah. But he's out on the West Coast, isn't he?"

Batman nodded. "Star City. Two months ago, one of his lieutenants took out a rival boss. From what those guys in holding told me, Brick sent the guy to Gotham to lie low until things blow over. He's got a couple of connections here. One of them spotted Green Arrow in town—"

"—and thought he was here about Brick's man," Chiarello nodded. "It makes sense." He smiled. "So I can breathe easier for a day or two, at least until the media gets wind of this. And they will."

"I know," Batman's mouth was set in a grim line. "We're keeping an eye on the situation." His lips twitched. "As you probably figured out tonight."

"Yeah, but for how long?"

"There are a lot of us, Detective Chiarello. Some of us aren't as active or high-profile as we used to be. While we can't be everywhere at all times, we can come close." He smiled. "And I suspect that your performance earlier wasn't a one-off. You may not need our assistance."

Chiarello grunted. "As long as you're here, I may as well save myself a phone call. You free for an interview on Sunday afternoon around two o'clock?"

Batman considered. "I'll let you know if there are any conflicts, but that should be doable." He smiled. "Or you can dig up your notes from five years ago. From what I recall, they should be pretty thorough."

Chiarello's laugh was closer to a bark. "First, that was about you, not your dad. Second? Do you mean to tell me that you're the same person you were five years ago? I don't think so."

The smile vanished "Point."

"Thanks for stopping by," Chiarello said formally. "If you'd like some free advice? If it turns out you do have plans for Sunday, change them. Your father should be coming out of his psych eval, shortly after I aim to finish our session. You might want to stick around until he's done."

Batman's lips parted slightly in surprise. An instant later, his composure returned. "Thanks. For the tip. I can see myself out."

"Nah, I'll walk you to the door, Batman. Thanks for stopping by."

As they were halfway down the hall, the dining room door opened and a dark-haired woman stepped out. "Maury, is someone he...?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes grew wide. "Um..."

"Uh..." Chiarello coughed, as he tried to sound casual. "Batman just had to stop by for a minute. Police business."

Batman inclined his head. "Sorry if we disturbed you."

"N-no," Noreen Chiarello stammered. "Not at all." She shot her husband a look. "I... Did Maury offer you a cup of coffee, because—"

"Not necessary," he said, dropping his usual gravelly tones. "I was just leaving. Detective." He ducked his head. "Ma'am." As Chiarello opened the front door for him, Batman whispered, "Next time, either tell her first, or show me to a window. Preferably second-story."

* * *

After his guest had gone, Chiarello went back to his notes. He hadn't had a chance to respond to Drake's message. Apparently, the guy was backpacking across Europe and didn't have easy access to a phone, but in his voice mail message, he'd indicated that he'd try to set something up. He'd left an email address, too. Chiarello sighed. He preferred face-to-face contact, but time was of the essence with Wayne's case. He considered. With all of the other people he needed to talk to, was it that essential that he interview Tim Drake?

He went over his notes. Drake had achieved a certain level of notoriety some years back by sneaking into Gotham during the No Man's Land. Chiarello snorted. He wondered how the kid had managed to get past the armed troops, the guarded bridges, and the mines in the river. Wayne had filed for guardianship after Drake's father had died... He frowned. That had been shortly after the mob war. He rifled through the file photos and his eye fell on a newspaper clipping. Drake had been at the funeral of a classmate shot at the beginning of that incident. Aquista's kid. He shook his head. From the photo, it didn't look like any of her other classmates had shown up. Interesting. It looked like Drake had been close to her. He checked the date of the clipping and shook his head. Darla Aquista's funeral had been exactly one week before the death of Jack Drake. To have lost a girlfriend and a father so close together...

Chiarello froze. _And Drake had moved to Bludhaven less than a month later_. He chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully, remembering what Wayne had told him about Harrier, that night at the bar. And if Harrier and Robin were the same person, and Harrier had also lost his father and his girlfriend and...

He sat unmoving for several long moments, as the evidence whirled through his mind and slowly dropped into place. Then he reached for the message pad on which he'd written the email address that Drake had given him and moved his mouse to banish the screensaver.

_Enjoy your trip_, he typed into the message text box. _I think I've just about figured out everything I need to. Should that change, I'll be in touch._

* * *

"Have a seat, Jim," Chiarello directed. "Thanks for coming by."

The former police commissioner settled into the padded chair with a sigh. "I'd say it was my pleasure, but, I think I told you a long time ago in the break-room that I hated being interviewed. It hasn't changed."

Chiarello chuckled. "I'll try to keep it as painless as possible. Guess the two of you have a history," he said. "I mean... you worked with the guy for over a decade and now you've moved into manor, I think?"

"Caretaker's cottage, actually."

"Ah, I see. So you're close with him."

"Yes."

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Even though he operates outside the law—or did for a number of years."

Gordon nodded. "You can arguably say the same for any member of the Justice League. Look, you remember what the law was like when I started with GCPD. Hell, if I hadn't trusted him, I doubt I'd be here talking to you now. I'd have either made a few compromises I couldn't live with or... let's just say, Loeb would have made it look like an accident."

"I told you to try for the FBI," Chiarello grinned.

"And I told you, 'Not in this lifetime,'" Jim smiled back. "Police work is in my family's blood and has been for over a century. I'm not even the first 'Commissioner James Gordon'—that would have been my father in Lakeside."

"Lakeside?" Chiarello asked blankly.

"Little town in upstate New York. He moved to Chicago after the war and took an academy position." He shook his head. "Joining the feds just never entered my mind. Besides, no matter how prudent that move might have been, it still would've felt like abandoning Gotham." Jim smiled again. "I think that's probably why Batman and I connected. With his money, and with what this place took from him, he could've abandoned the city years ago. But he stuck with it because he felt he could make a difference. And he was right. He didn't just attack the criminals we couldn't touch. His family built this city up. He continued that legacy. And after the earthquake, he rebuilt it from the ground up."

Chiarello made a notation on his pad. "Why do you think he wants to join us?"

Jim sighed. "You might say it's because Sawyer's twisting his arm—and that's probably why he's jumping through all of your hoops now, instead of backing out and doing things his way. The truth is, the sole reason that he does what he does is because of what this city took from him."

"His parents."

Jim nodded. "He told me once that he wanted to make Gotham a place where no other child would have to see his loved ones murdered in front of him. So... when it comes to urban renewal, his money is at the forefront. When it comes to philanthropy, he's there. When it comes to getting crime off the streets, he's doing that too. Has done it for years, and the city's better for it. If you ask me, what he's doing now isn't the least bit incompatible with his long-term goal."

"Maybe," Chiarello said. "There is the matter of the brutality of his approach. At least in the past. Shouldn't we be concerned about a reoccurrence? The press would be all over that."

"He's had anger issues," Jim nodded. "He's been working on them for over a year and a half."

"I know he attacked you when he was drugged. Is it possible that the drug didn't 'make him violent' so much as weaken his control?" Seeing Jim's stony expression, he continued, "Look. If a person commits murder while drunk or drugged, the judge doesn't throw the case out. It may mean a difference of degree: Murder One to Two or Two to Manslaughter. But 'too drunk to know what he was doing' isn't normally grounds for acquittal."

"Well, for starters," Jim shot back, "he didn't kill me. Second, he didn't take the drug voluntarily." He took a deep breath. "I'm not stupid, Maury. I get why you're concerned about this, but I think maybe you'd be better off checking the records for sentences meted out to individuals committing crimes under the influence of Scarecrow's fear toxin or Poison Ivy's pheromones. The law treats those people as victims, and rightly so. If Bruce had knowingly taken the Desoxyn, I'd agree with you. He didn't."

Chiarello nodded slowly. "Since his release, have you ever seen him out of control?"

Jim shook his head. "Angry, yes. But not out of control."

"Angry. What about?"

Jim sighed. "He's used to being in control—of himself and of a given situation. It took him a while to accept that, when it came to the terms of his release, he wasn't—isn't. I'd say, more than anything, it's been the restrictions he's had to abide by."

"Mmm," Chiarello made another notation. "Have you seen him attempt to circumvent them?"

"No. I've seen him question them. I know he's asked me about whether a particular action would be considered a violation of those restrictions."

"Can you give me a f'r'instance?"

Jim nodded. "Shortly after his release, he decided to tackle a bit of gardening. Now, as you'd expect, given that nobody had attended to the grounds for over two years, it was something of a jungle. We weren't sure it was safe to use a lawnmower, seeing as the weeds were waist-high in some spots, and we had no idea what sort of roots or rocks might be under them. Bruce asked me whether there was any restriction on his using a machete to clear a path."

"Ah," Chiarello leaned back. "At this point, he'd been out how long?"

Jim thought back. "Less than a week. He'd just gone back to the manor."

"So, you're saying that right from the start, he was trying to comply with the restrictions."

"Exactly."

"Were there any violations?"

Jim considered. "Not that I witnessed, no. I'm not saying he didn't _want_ to. There were plenty of times when it was obvious that the rules were chafing him. The truth is, if he had decided to flout them, I couldn't have done anything to stop him other than file a report after the fact." He gestured to the cane that rested against the arm of his chair. "But he knows how to channel his anger. I guess that, in the past, he saved it for his night activities—and even then, when he cut loose, he kept control. These last few months, he's had other outlets: yoga, gardening, exercise. Plus, he's still seeing his therapist."

"So if you were in my place, you'd recommend hiring him?"

Jim smiled. "Absolutely."

* * *

"So, Chiarello repeated dubiously, "you had no idea that he was Batman?"

Lucius Fox sighed. "It sounds incredible, I know, but Bruce always did put on a good act. And even though I saw through it, I have to say that it never seriously occurred to me that he could be Batman."

Chiarello frowned. "I don't mean to doubt your word," he said, "but surely the technology that Batman uses struck you as familiar?"

"Of course," Lucius nodded. "But here's the thing: PMWE doesn't have a monopoly on technological innovation. I wish we did; our profits would be a good deal higher. Generally, we're involved in a race to get our latest product through testing, because we know that if we wait a month... a week... a day, then LexCorp or Queen Industries will get there first. I'd be frankly more surprised to hear that PMWE was the only company developing a certain technology at any given time. Not to mention that you're overlooking something."

"Really?"

Lucius nodded again. "How many encounters do you think I—or most other people of Gotham who were neither criminals nor police personnel—actually had with Batman? He's saved my life on more than one occasion, yes, but that doesn't mean that I had the opportunity to look at his suit and think, 'Wait... isn't that the lightweight Kevlar that we patented last fall?' or 'Aren't those night-vision goggles our prototype?'" He smiled. "Yes, a lot of WE's technology did find its way to Batman—but it wasn't as though I was ever close enough to identify it. Plus, what I did see on the rare occasions when I was face-to-face with him? If it _was_ ours—and, granted, it probably was—he modified it so it was less recognizable."

"Ah," Chiarello nodded. "Now, there is one thing that does concern me. When Wayne is doing something he wants to, it's pretty clear to me that he's focused on the goal. But when it's something he's not fond of, is it fair to say that he'll find a way to evade his responsibilities?"

Lucius sighed. "How can I answer that?" he asked. "I guess, if you believe that a man without a business degree, who inherited his seat on the board but isn't fully attuned to every aspect of the company, should nevertheless be compelled to prove his dedication by running the company, even if he runs it into the ground, you can make a case for it. What you have to understand is that the company is important to Bruce, not for its net worth, but because it comes to him from his parents. He sees it as a legacy to be protected. And to that end, he chose to appoint someone qualified to run the company in his stead."

"But couldn't he have gotten the qualifications on his own, had he gone a different route?"

"It's possible," Lucius admitted. "But as you might be aware, his parents' legacy was more than just a corporation. The Waynes built Gotham." He smiled. "I'll tell you two things you may or may not already know about Bruce. One, he hates public speaking. Two, he hates politics. Come to think of it," he frowned, "I imagine that, for all its legal problems, the vigilante approach does give him the advantage of cutting through a lot of red tape without having to make speeches or play ball. Sorry. Didn't mean to digress." He shook his head, smiling now.

"What I'm trying to say," he continued, "is that when the Senate was debating whether to declare Gotham a No Man's Land, Bruce _didn't _delegate. He knew that a professional lobbyist wouldn't have the same... passion for the cause. He hates politics. He hates making speeches. But he played politics and he made those speeches because there wasn't anyone else. And when it didn't work, he kept fighting. He had me working on the outside and," he hesitated for a moment. "Well, now we know that he was working on the inside. And when the No Man's Land was over, he had WE—not PMWE, by the way—spearheading the rebuild." Lucius took a deep breath. "Mr. Wayne knows that you get more accomplished when you have the most qualified people in key positions. Knowing what I know now, it's fair to say that, most of the time, he _is_—or was—the most qualified person. But not to steer a multinational corporation. Oh, if all he were interested in doing was siphoning off the profits and financing his personal extra-curriculars, he could probably keep it going for a few years. But he never intended WE to be his toy. He never lost sight of the knowledge that poor judgment on his part could translate into budget cuts and job losses. And he had no problem admitting that he wasn't qualified to administer the company on his own, but then bring in people who were."

"Like yourself."

Lucius nodded slowly. "I'm not the only one. And I'll tell you something else: underneath that clueless façade, Bruce set out to make himself aware of what was going on. Nobody as bored with the company as he pretended to be would ask so many questions. And yes, he did ask them in a vague, offhand manner, but he always hung around for the answer. And he remembered it." Lucius took a deep breath. "Not long ago, he needed some data. It wasn't classified information," Lucius smiled. "Just some old records we had in our archives that I'd mentioned to him at one point. That was some years ago, but he knew exactly where those records were kept."

"Did he say what he wanted it for?"

Lucius frowned. "You know, thinking back... I don't believe he ever did specify. I think Dick mentioned that he was reviewing some cold cases for your offices?"

Chiarello grunted. "Moving right along...

* * *

"How did you meet him?"

Captain Montoya gave him a rueful smile. "I was in Commissioner Gordon's office. He showed up at the window."

Chiarello chuckled. "Must've made your night."

"I almost shot him."

"How'd he take that?"

"Pretty well," Montoya admitted, "given the circumstances."

"He's been helping you with some of our unsolvables, right?"

Montoya nodded. "I thought he could probably use the mental exercise, so I got Sawyer to sign off on it. Before his release, we were able to close the books on over a dozen."

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Without access to a computer." It wasn't phrased as question. When Montoya nodded again, he let out a slow breath. "That's pretty impressive. Not just that he solved them without the usual resources—that we didn't, even with those resources. Okay. Obviously, he can follow the evidence, even if the trail's faint. What concerns me more is his tendency to use force. I mean, off the record, Captain, we all know that some perps deserve it, and sometimes, I'd like to hang a freaking medal on the guys dishing it out. Doesn't change the fact that if he starts beating up on people in custody, we're going to have a lot of explaining to do. We know he can dish it out. Can he rein it in?"

"I think so," Montoya said. "After the quake, a lot of inmates escaped from both Arkham and Blackgate. We had our hands full rounding them up. Batman was helping, of course. Oddly enough, so was Two-Face. Or maybe, it wasn't so odd. His coin had been coming up unscarred for a while."

"Excuse me. You said, Two-Face was helping you round up escapees?"

"What?" Montoya blinked. "Oh! No, no, he was helping us dig survivors out of the wreckage. Anyway, Batman swooped down and was ready to haul him back."

"How much force did he use?"

"Minimal. Harvey… Two-Face didn't put up more than a token resistance. Actually, I… I convinced him to let him go."

Chiarello leaned forward. "You convinced Batman to release Two-Face?"

"We needed every pair of hands we could get. And… Harvey saved my brother. Batman asked me if I was prepared to vouch for Two-Face. When I said I was, he released him."

"Have you ever seen him lose control?"

Montoya considered. "I don't think I have. I've seen him get scary-angry, but he's always got it reined in. Sometimes, he lets something slip, and it looks like he's about to lose it… but I think even that's part of the act." She grinned. "Scares the hell out of the perps, I can tell you. It's like, "Oh hell. If he's like this when he's just angry, what happens if I really tick him off?"

"Which would be the general idea."

"That's right."

"Do you have any concerns about accepting his application?"

"None whatsoever."

"Tell me more about the No Man's Land."

* * *

Bruce wasn't surprised when Chiarello called the manor at five o'clock. By five-thirty, he was in his car and driving toward GCPD.

At five-forty, the radio in Detective Barry Allen's squad car crackled to life.

"Car 31, do you read? Over."

Barry glanced at the officer sitting beside him. "31 here. Go ahead, Dispatch. Over."

"What's your 20, 31?"

Barry hesitated. "Renfield Heights?" he whispered to his new partner, trying to remember the guy's surname. Something with a "D" that was also a first name... David? Dennis?

The other officer, _Daniel! That was it!_ Daniel nodded. Barry relayed that to the radio.

"Head on over to Battergate, 31. Someone just phoned in a tip on a 10-14 in the neighborhood. Check it out. Over."

_A prowler, _Barry translated with a nod. He'd studied the map thoroughly before heading out with Daniel, concentrating his efforts on a neighborhood that was less than five minutes away from where he really needed to be—close enough to be the nearest car in the vicinity when False Face made his move, but far enough away that False Face wouldn't spot their black-and-white and possibly be scared off. "Roger that, Dispatch. We're on our way. Over."

Sgt. Daniel frowned. "It must be a quiet evening," he said. "We don't usually get called in before a crime's actually in progress."

Barry turned left. "Guess it's some perp's unlucky night, then," he remarked easily. _And it's a good thing that Oracle can hijack Police Band and get the right message out at the right time—or getting into Battergate without making my partner suspicious would be a lot harder!_

* * *

False Face checked the address once more and turned his car onto Wrightson Way. He frowned. The south side of the street had signs prohibiting weekend parking. There was no unoccupied spot on the north side. With a sigh, he continued to the end of the street, turned the corner slowly, and looked for another place to park. He finally found one nearly three blocks away. He sighed. Yes, Paxton had told him to make sure that he was spotted, and he realized full well that the more people who saw Bruce Wayne walking down the street, the better; but it was a cold night and he didn't relish the trek.

His jaw set. It was a simple assignment. Appear outside the woman's window, be seen, and go home. Five thousand dollars for what—even with the walk from his car—amounted to a half-hour's work, maximum. He had no real cause for complaint. He knew…

"…Wayne? Excuse me? Sir?"

Startled, False Face looked up, registering blue eyes and the golden gleam of a police detective's shield. "Pardon?"

"I thought I recognized you, Mr. Wayne," the detective smiled affably. "Out for a walk?"

"Um…" False Face strove to sound casual. "Uh… yes. Yes, I am. It's a quiet night."

The detective nodded. "That it is. Um… Mr. Wayne, maybe you didn't realize it, but you appear to have come within 500 feet of number 68 Wrightson Way." His tone was apologetic. "I'm afraid you're currently in violation of the terms of your restraining order."

False Face opened his mouth to protest, but the officer barrelled on.

"Look, I'm sure it was just an oversight on your part, so suppose we just let this go with a warning. If you turn around now, we can pretend this didn't happen." He glanced at the uniformed officer standing a half-pace behind him. "Sound good to you, Sergeant?"

The sergeant smiled. "Absolutely."

"But…"

The detective draped a friendly arm across his shoulders. "Let me walk you out of range, sir. Just so you're aware of the demarcation line. Come on," he said, ignoring False Face's protests and steering him back the way he'd come.

"Okay," the detective said, as they neared the corner. "That fire hydrant is about 500 feet away. Stay on the other side of it and you'll be fine. Got it?"

False Face forced himself to smile.

"Have a good night, Mr. Wayne."

As the detective headed back to his partner, False Face's smile died. He started walking slowly back toward his car. At the end of the block, though, instead of continuing straight, he turned right—hoping to approach the Ryerson house from the west this time. He turned onto Wrightson, but he'd only passed by five houses when he heard the officer's voice calling, once more.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne!"

False Face froze.

"This tree?" The detective drew his attention to an oak that he'd just passed. "That's the 500-foot boundary on this side. In case you were wondering."

"I'll remember that," False Face said, trying to sound vague. "Thank you."

"Not at all."

Under the watchful gaze of both officers, False Face retraced his steps. Now he really did need to go to his car—so that he could, in relative quiet and privacy, let Paxton know there was a problem.

* * *

"I'm afraid there's been a snag, Les," False Face said with a helpless laugh. "Yes, it appears that the police are watching the Ryerson house tonight. Silly, I know, but I don't see how I can get onto the property without getting myself arrested." He chuckled. "Another night, then?"

Paxton remembered that he'd always _hated_ Bruce's cluelessness in the boardroom. Especially that stupid, inane laugh—just barely better than a giggle. The fact that False Face was able to replicate it so precisely didn't help his mood. "I was under the impression that I was dealing with a professional," he said icily. "Our contract stipulated that you would be at the Ryerson house at seven. It is now six fifty-five. Therefore, I expect you to fulfill your obligation and be at that house, as directed, within the next five minutes."

False Face sucked in his breath, stung to the quick. "It's because I'm a professional," he retorted in his own voice, "that I know that this isn't going to work. Not tonight, with the police watching. I could try again in an hour or so—"

"An hour would be too late." Paxton insisted. "Very well. I'll add another thousand to what we agreed on."

"That's nice to hear," False Face said, "but I'd prefer you paid for a good attorney. If I approach that house again, there's an excellent chance I'm going to need one."

There was a moment's silence. Then Paxton spoke again. "Perhaps you'd be able to evade the police if you were to disguise yourself as a different individual, and then become Wayne once you've safely passed them."

False Face shook his head in disbelief. Did this man know _nothing_? "Mr. Paxton," he said, enunciating each word distinctly, "you told me to make myself look so much like Wayne, his own parents wouldn't know which one was which. That's what you got. If you want me to just put on a non-descript face, yes, I can do that, too. But once I change my face, it's not so easy to restore the Wayne look. You don't appear to realize that there's more to it than putting on a wig and an expensive suit. It took me over three hours to apply the necessary makeup and latex prosthetics. I can't very well put them back on again outdoors, in the dark, in five minutes or less. You wanted an expert? I'm giving you expert advice. The conditions are wrong tonight. If you're going to insist that I try, regardless, then I'll require payment commensurate with the risk."

Paxton drew his breath in sharply. "Six thousand dollars, plus the services of an attorney."

"Six thousand dollars," False Face replied, "the services of an attorney, and two hundred dollars for every day I spend in holding awaiting a trial. If the trial goes against me, it'll be an extra one thousand dollars for every week I spend behind bars."

"Are you mad?"

"Noooooo," False Face drew out the syllable. "That would be _Clayface_. I'm just taking out a bit of insurance—to make sure that you look out for my best interests and don't see me as another loose end to eliminate. After all, you wouldn't want me to worry that I was being set up to get arrested and then have you deny all knowledge of my actions," he added ingenuously, "would you?"

"Of course not," Paxton said irritably. "Fine. I'll agree to those terms. If complications ensue, stay in character for as long as you can."

"One other thing, Mr. Paxton," False Face added. "Before I set out tonight, I left a complete description of my activities, documented with dates, times, meetings, and so on and so forth with a couple of people I know. In the event that I do not return home safely this evening, and that you fail to live up to the terms of this agreement, a single phone call from me is all it will take to ensure that copies of our correspondence will be sent to the media… and, to certain," he coughed, "associates of mine who really don't like it when old money and old power think that they can hire people like me to do their dirty work and then leave us high and dry when the crunch comes."

"How dare you?" Paxton blustered. "Let me assure you that I'm a man of my word, and there are _many_ people out there who can vouch for my integrity."

"Even if it should come to light that you're hiring a double to destroy one of your former colleagues? I must have missed the wellspring of support _he_ engendered a few years back when his activities came to light. Ah, but maybe you're different. And in any case, I do apologize if I offended you just now. I only wanted you to be clear on where things stand, on the off chance that expert legal advice were to suggest that you compromise your… integrity. Think of it as encouragement to… oh, let's say, 'do the right thing,' hmmm?"

"I quite understand," Paxton said stonily. "Now get over to the Ryerson house."

* * *

Sgt. Daniel glanced at his partner. "It's been two minutes since the last time you looked at your watch," he said. "Tops. Why are we still here?"

"Call it a hunch, Sergeant," Barry replied. He noted with satisfaction that the tracer he'd stuck on False Face earlier was moving again. He was around the block, headed east on foot. Barry sighed and began walking toward the corner. All at once he stopped. The tracer wasn't heading east anymore, but north. Barry smiled. So he was trying to cut across the backyards. He looked at Daniel.

"You see that?" he asked, craning his head as though trying to see behind the house that he was passing.

"What?"

Barry's voice turned grim. "Maybe nothing. But I think I just saw someone trying to scale a back fence. And Wayne seemed pretty intent on getting to number 68 before."

"That bugs me," Daniel replied, falling into step behind Barry. "I mean, up to now, Wayne's pretty much kept his head down. Why pull something like this now? I mean…" He let his voice trail off.

Barry nodded. "I've heard the talk around the water cooler," he admitted. "I agree it makes no sense. But you saw him. Unless you have a better explanation?"

Daniel laughed. "In this city? Theoretically, it could be anything from extortion to mind control, but without proof…"

"Yeah. Better take him downtown and let his lawyer deal with it. Come on."

The two officers eased open the gate to the yard in time to see a shadowy figure drop heavily over the fence. He landed in an ungainly half-crouch and immediately fell backwards. With a grunt, the figure rose and advanced toward the house. Instead of attempting to enter the darkened kitchen, the figure headed for the gate—and directly into the arms of the two police officers.

"Sorry about this, Mr. Wayne," Barry said, as he pinned False Face against the side of the house and manacled his wrists behind his back, while Daniel began informing him of his Miranda rights.

"You have the right to remain silent…"

* * *

"Coffee?" Chiarello asked solicitously.

Bruce shook his head automatically. "No tha—" A coughing fit overtook him. "Actually," he managed, "water would be appreciated."

"Take it easy," the backgrounder said, as he walked briskly out of the office. He returned a moment later with a conical paper cup. "You okay?"

Bruce nodded. "My throat was dry."

"I don't doubt it." Chiarello's lips twitched. "Okay, now, that issue you were mentioning last time with the super-steroid…"

"Venom," Bruce supplied.

"Yeah, I was meaning to ask—" The phone on his desk rang, breaking into their conversation. Chiarello held up a hand. "Hang on till it rings to voice mail," he said.

The phone rang three times and stopped. Chiarello shrugged. "Okay, so—"

The phone rang again. Chiarello exhaled through his teeth. "Excuse me," he said, and picked up the phone. "I'm in conference," he snapped into the receiver. "What?" He listened for a moment. "Are you seri—He's sitting across from me right now. Yeah, we're on our way." He replaced the phone and looked across his desk at Bruce. "Have you got an evil twin?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Not that I know of."

Chiarello nodded curtly. "Roll up your sleeves."

"I beg your pardon?"

"On your application, you described a number of scars. I'd like to verify a few of them now before I get to see two people trying to denounce each other as imposters. And since I can check your forearms easily enough, let's start there."

Without another word of protest, Bruce shed his suit jacket, unbuttoned the cuffs of his long-sleeved dress shirt, and pushed them back. Chiarello inspected the flesh briefly and nodded. "Okay, grab your jacket and let's head downstairs."

* * *

"Well?" Chiarello demanded. "What's been done so far?"

"He's been booked for TRO violation. We've run his prints, should get them back in 48 hours or so…" the other officer's voice trailed off as he stared at Bruce. "The two of you've been together all this time?"

Chiarello's amusement was clear. "Since about six this evening. He phone anyone, yet?"

The officer nodded. "Figured you'd want to have a look at the number," he said. "The other party didn't pick up and he didn't leave a message."

"Understood." Chiarello accepted the paper that the officer held out to him. "I'll see if I can figure out who this belongs to." He turned to Bruce. "Out of curiosity, who would your one call be to?"

Bruce considered. "My attorney," he replied, "if only because my family would probably be aware of my circumstances before I arrived here."

"Somehow," Chiarello said glancing at the page. "I'm not surpr—I take it back," he said, letting out a low whistle.

"What?"

Chiarello reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "It matches," he said as he unfolded it. "Your evil twin was calling the private cell phone of PMWE's chief financial officer." His voice was grim. "Lester Paxton."

* * *

A/N: Yes, I do realize that Tim and Darla weren't a couple. Chiarello is basing his conclusions on the information that he has available to him, and coming up with the right answers—even if he is zeroing in on the wrong deceased girlfriend.


	11. Chapter 10: Spinning Down Round Down

_I saw you standing in the middle of the thunder and lightning,  
I know you're feelin' like you just can't win but you're tryin',  
It's hard to keep on keepin' on when you're bein' pushed around,  
Don't even know which way is up, just keep spinnin' down, round, down…_

—_Gary Allen, Hilary Lindsey, Matt Warren: Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)_

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! References to _Batman: Dark Victory_ by Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale (1999-2000). I'm making a couple of tweaks, if only because there's support elsewhere in canon for them.

"Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)" written by Gary Allen, Hillary Lindsey and Matt Warren. Recorded by Gary Allen (MCA Nashville, 2012).

Squicks/Triggers: Implied uncomfortable power dynamics

**Chapter 10—Spinning Down Round Down**

Chiarello watched Bruce closely, gauging his reaction.

For his part, Bruce didn't have to hide his surprise. He would have laid money on False Face calling his lawyer. He tensed when Chiarello took his arm.

"Let's head back to my office," he said, with a frown. "We have a few more questions to go over."

Bruce followed with a mental sigh.

Chiarello waited until the door closed behind them before asking, "What does the cost of a good impersonator run to, these days?"

Bruce frowned. "I'm not sure."

"Oh, come on," Chiarello coaxed. "You mean you've never needed to be in two places at once?"

"It's been necessary," Bruce admitted, refusing to rise to the bait, "but it's always been a good deal easier to have a family member substitute for me in the costume. I've never needed to hire a stand-in, no."

The backgrounder frowned. "But you do have some associates who can change their shape or create illusions, correct?"

Bruce sighed. "I do, but if you think about it, I believe you'll understand why they might take a somewhat dim view of my request for help in violating a restraining order. And even if they were willing to impersonate me for some reason, it's doubtful that your people would be able to arrest them without taking more extreme measures."

"And even more doubtful that their one phone call would be to PMWE's VP of Finance, instead of you, or their lawyer," Chiarello smiled for the first time since they'd gone downstairs.

Bruce blinked.

Chiarello's smile broadened. "I guess this _could_ be some elaborate setup on your part to terrorize someone for starting up with you with a TRO and implicate one of PMWE's top execs in the ensuing scandal, while you're at it. I mean, I have no doubt that if you _wanted_ to do things that way, you could arrange it. But, somehow, I just can't see you doing anything that convoluted or," he shook his head, "amateurish." He sighed.

"In other words, Mr. Wayne?" He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. "Go home. Get a good night's sleep. You'll need to be back here tomorrow at 10 AM sharp to talk to a guy who's going to be nowhere _near_ as nice and polite as I am, and I wouldn't want to keep him waiting, if I were you." His smile thinned. "Go on, get out of here."

Bruce nodded and extended his hand automatically when Chiarello reached for it. Outside in the hallway, he frowned. Was the backgrounder softening, or was this all a ploy to catch him with his guard down?

It didn't matter, he realized. He _hadn't_ hired False Face, he wasn't violating the restraining order, and unless there was circumstantial evidence to suggest otherwise, he might as well take Chiarello's words at face value.

…As soon as he made sure that Oracle was monitoring police channels for any nasty surprises that might come up in the investigation.

* * *

The doorbell rang, shattering the peace of a Sunday morning breakfast. "Oh, honestly!" Sharon Ryerson muttered, pulling her bathrobe more tightly closed.

"Want me to get it, Ma?" Joel asked, his mouth full of breakfast cereal.

"No," Sharon sighed. "Eat. I'm already standing." She hurried to the door, absently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she pulled it open a crack. "Yes?"

"Detective Chiarello, ma'am," the man rumbled, holding up an ID badge. "May I come in?"

"Police?" Sharon asked sharply. "What do you want?"

"I just need to ask you a few questions," Chiarello said. "There's been some suspicious activity in the neighborhood, and I thought you might have seen something."

"Oh." She hesitated for a moment, before pulling the door open. "C-come in," she said, as she led him to the living room. "Excuse the mess." She realized that she was still standing there in her bathrobe. "Could you excuse me for one moment, please?"

Chiarello nodded and took the seat that she waved him toward. The room was modestly, but comfortably furnished, with a Lawson sofa and two matching armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table. He settled into the armchair, then frowned and reached behind him to remove the throw cushion. He balanced it on his lap and took out a Moleskine notebook.

Sharon re-entered a few moments later. She was wearing a loose t-shirt over stretch pants, and had caught her hair back with a lycra band. "How can I help you, Detective?" she asked.

Chiarello smiled. "Why don't you have a seat? I won't take up too much of your time."

She obeyed with a look of weary resignation.

"Ms. Ryerson," Chiarello began, "last night, we received a call about some suspicious activity in this neighborhood around seven o'clock. Did you notice anything unusual?"

She shook her head, bewildered. "No…"

"Were you at home?"

"Yes, I was."

"Alone?"

"How is that your business, again?"

Chiarello sighed. "I'm just wondering if you were with anyone who might have seen something." He regarded her soberly and she looked away first.

"No, I wasn't alone," she said irritably. "I was meeting with a friend and an attorney."

"Those are two different people?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Have they got names?"

She frowned. "Do you really need that information?"

"Like I said," Chiarello replied, "I'm trying to get to the bottom of things. We have a man in custody right now, and we're trying to get an eyewitness to confirm if it's the person who was causing the disturbance. Since we've established that you didn't see anyone, I'd like to verify whether these other people did."

Indecision flared briefly in her eyes before she let out a long breath. "Ron Chester and Zach Shaw," she said.

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. Where would Ryerson have got the money to hire a guy like Shaw? "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "I appreciate your assistance. Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought, "about the restraining order—"

"I knew it," Sharon snapped. "I knew that's what this was about. He sent you to try to strong-arm me into backing down, didn't he?"

Chiarello's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you can tell Mr. Wayne that I'll see him in court!" she barrelled on.

"Ms. Ryerson," Chiarello said calmly, "that's between you and Mr. Wayne. Now, I'm here on police business, and I'm just trying to get some answers. I'm only curious about whether you decided to take out the restraining order before or after your conversation with Lester Paxton. That's all."

As Chiarello spoke, the expression on Sharon's face changed from fury to confusion. She blinked. "Who's… Lester Paxton?"

* * *

Bruce set down the revolver and punched the controller button on the console to retrieve the paper bulls-eye. With every incremental increase in accuracy came an increase in his realization that he was holding a weapon whose primary purpose was to take life. Of course, not every bullet was fired at a living being, and not every bullet wound was fatal. None of that changed the fact that a gun was designed to kill. His batarangs carried that potential, yes—as did most of the knives in his kitchen, or a clothesline, or a hammer, for that matter. However, none of those other items had been created with that aim in mind.

As the weight of the gun grew more comfortable in his hand, the weight in his heart grew harder to bear. Always before, he had felt exhilaration when he mastered a new skill. Now, not only was he not feeling it, he knew that a part of him would have been horrified if he did.

It wasn't too late to back out, he knew. He could take on another identity, keep a lower profile. As long as he avoided GCPD headquarters, he could probably just wear the suit and everyone would assume that it was Dick.

His jaw set. He was no quitter! Worse, he'd given his word to Sawyer that he was going to go through with this. He might have lost his loved ones, his freedom, his self-respect, his reputation, his company, his colleagues, his privacy, and a host of other gifts he'd taken for granted, but his word was still golden—in his own eyes. He had to make it meaningful to others, too. He clenched his teeth. He might still fail the admissions process. He might wash out of the academy if he couldn't pass gun handling. But if he did, it wouldn't be because he'd given up.

He took a deep breath and clipped a new target to the carrier for deployment.

* * *

"You sure you don't want me to wait for you when I'm done?" Selina asked, as Bruce pulled on his jacket. "Fix your collar," she added, reaching forward to straighten it.

"I've got it," Bruce said, pulling back. "And it's going to be a while. You don't need to wait," he added, as he fussed with the collar. "You're clear on what to tell him?"

Selina nodded. "As long as you're clear on what he hasn't already been told."

Bruce nodded, still fiddling with the collar. "It's almost a shame," he mused, "we've managed to be almost completely honest until now."

"Yes, but since, in their eyes, I'm not Catwoman, obviously, saying that we met in costume would be…" She broke off with an exasperated sigh. "You're making it worse. Here," she reached toward his collar once more. This time, Bruce gave in with a sigh of his own.

"I," he took a deep breath. "I don't need you to wait for me at the station. However, if you could be here when I get back, that would be appr—" He stopped. "_I_ would appreciate it." He sighed. "There's a side of me that I try very hard to keep under control. Everyone… Dick, Jim… Chiarello, has been quick to let me know that what I'm about to face today will test that control."

"I've seen you bat out before," Selina interrupted. "I don't enjoy it, but it's not exactly going to scar me for life."

Bruce shook his head. "You've seen me get angry when I had a regular outlet for my frustrations. I don't," he took a deep breath. "I've been trying to figure out whether I'm really… managing as well as I think I am, or whether I'm still suppressing things, the way I used to. Saving them for the costume. Exercise—training—does help, but I don't know if it's been enough and I've just been keeping everything buried like I used to. From the way everyone else has been acting, today's evaluation stands a good chance of letting me know for sure, one way or the other. If the results aren't what we're hoping for," he looked down, "I'd prefer a chance to calm down on the way home, rather than have you see me at my worst."

Selina sucked in air through her teeth and blew it out. Then she placed both hands on his shoulders. "I've seen you at your worst," she said, "running yourself ragged, looking like you hadn't changed your costume—or shaved—in a week, sending everyone away, right when you need us the most. And…" She looked away, but tightened her grip on Bruce's shoulders, "when I found out I was pregnant, I broke into Arkham. I thought… I don't know what I thought. That if you knew, you'd sit up and start fighting again? I, I got there at eight—swiped a nurse's uniform, and made it down to your… room. Dick got into the elevator as I got out. And I saw you. I c-called your name. You," she swallowed hard. "You never answered."

"When was that?" Bruce asked hollowly.

"About two months after you were admitted."

"I… there isn't much I remember about that time. I was under heavy sedation for a while—"

"I know that," Selina gulped. "I knew it then. I'm not trying to blame you for not acknowledging me. I'm trying to tell you," she turned back to face him. Her eyes glistened, but only the faintest tremor betrayed her voice. "You don't want me to see you at your worst, Bruce? That night in Arkham? _That _was you at your worst. And whatever you think you might let slip out today, it's not going to be worse for me than it was seeing you then."

Bruce pulled her closer. "Still, if you stay, that means that Jim will be looking after Helena for over six hours. I'm not sure that's fair to him."

"Better not let him hear you say that," Selina replied, with a half-smile. "Fine. You win. I'll come back here when Chiarello's done talking to me." She moved away from him to get her own coat out of the vestibule closet, then turned back to face him. "But if Dick wasn't going to be waiting for you when you came out, I'd drop Helena with the Titans and come back."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "The Titans? That's a bit of a switch from a few months ago."

"Yeah, well, Helena's a few months older now. I think she can handle them." She pulled her coat off the hanger. "You lock up," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I'll wait in the garage."

"Wait. _She_ can handle _them_?" Bruce called after her retreating figure.

"Hurry up, Bruce," she sang back, "time's not moving any slower!"

* * *

_Interviewee: Selina Kyle_

MC: How did you two meet?

SK: It was a society dinner. I was there as the guest of some Gothcorp AVP. Mike… Rochester? Roark? I [giggle] oh, dear. This is embarrassing. You'd think I'd remember. Especially since, when I went to freshen up, I came back to find my date pawing some barely-legal young thing who could've been his daughter. Well, I stormed out onto the patio and nearly collided with Bruce. Spilled my Cabernet all over his white tux jacket. Red wine makes such a dreadful mess, you know. I was mortified.

MC: How did he react?

SK: He apologized for not getting out of my way and offered to get me another drink. We got to talking and…

MC: You were together ever since?

SK: No, but we kept running into each other. I found out afterwards that he suspected me of being Catwoman. He wasn't the first or the last, so I can hardly blame him.

MC: And when he found out you weren't?

SK: Well, Batman stopped stalking me. Bruce… How can I explain it? He didn't really ask me out, but we'd keep running into each other at parties. I didn't realize until much later that when he'd disappear to answer the signal, he'd often come back to discover that his date had gone home with someone else. Sometimes, my dates would do the same. Other times, I attended on my own. Sometimes, we'd both just enjoy a conversation, and then go back to whoever we'd arrived with.

MC: When did you find out he was Batman?

SK: Hmm… That's a tough one. I guess I sort of noticed that he'd usually find some excuse to make himself scarce if the signal went up. And one time, I… I kissed him good night, on the cheek. The light wasn't very good. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a bruise that hadn't been there before he disappeared for a good part of the evening.

MC: And you hadn't noticed it until then?

SK: No. I think he realized that I had because he walked away, touching his cheek where I'd kissed him, with this… well, it was almost a boyish smile, really. But he was covering the bruise.

MC: Which you don't know you saw.

SK: Which I wasn't sure I'd seen. Until I got in and started cleaning off my makeup. And there was something on my lipstick.

MC: Something…

SK: Foundation. He'd used makeup to cover the bruise. It came off when I kissed him.

MC: And that led you to believe he was Batman.

SK: Not right away. I did think it odd that he'd be wearing makeup, of course. After that, though… well, I started to pay attention to little things. Actually, I started seeing more bruises. I… admit I started imagining all kinds of scenarios, from his owing money to a loan shark—not everyone knows how to live within their means, after all, to his getting into drunken brawls.

MC: Did you ever see him drunk?

SK: I never saw him touch alcohol. It made me wonder whether he might have been struggling with a problem in that area. Maybe he didn't drink at parties, where he'd make a spectacle of himself, but went to cheap bars when he wanted to get loaded. I even wondered if there wasn't some sort of domestic situation. Sounds like something out of a bad melodrama, doesn't it?

MC: So, how did you find out?

SK: We were walking in Robinson Park one evening. It was getting dark. We heard something from a wooded area, a bit off of the path. Bruce told me to wait where I was. I followed him.

MC: What was it?

SK: Two men were attacking a woman. Bruce… it was… he was trying to hold back, to make it look like he was getting in lucky punches. One of them pulled a gun. The other had a knife. He… had them both disarmed in about five seconds. Then he went back to trying not to let on how well he could fight.

MC: And you suspected him of being Batman?

SK: No, I suspected him of being a masochist. I… to be honest, I wanted to get away from him. I didn't know what was going on. When he finished with the muggers, I told him I was going home. It was getting cold. I wasn't really dressed for it, but I didn't want to be around him right then.

MC: How did he deal with that?

SK: He wasn't happy.

MC: What did he do?

SK: Well, he tried to talk me out of it. When he saw that wouldn't work, he asked me to wait and he'd call me a taxi. I refused. I just wanted to put as much distance as possible between us.

MC: How did he react to that?

SK: I'd say he was… disappointed, but not surprised. When he saw I was serious, he took off his jacket.

MC: His jacket?

SK: The temperature was dropping. I really wasn't dressed for it. I didn't want to take the jacket, but, well, I _was_ shivering. He told me I could mail it back to him if I wanted. I thanked him.

MC: So you went home.

SK: I did.

MC: But obviously, you saw him again.

SK: Well, yes.

MC: What made you decide to?

SK: I wanted to give him back the jacket—in person.

MC: Why?

SK: Well, I wasn't sure if I'd get into trouble mailing it back.

MC: Trouble?

SK: He hadn't gone through the inside pockets. Or, maybe he knew what was in them, and it was easier to let me connect the dots than tell me outright. In any case, I wasn't sure if it was legal to send… batarangs… via USPS…

MC: Do you think he did mean for you to find out that he was Batman?

* * *

_Interviewee: Barbara Gordon_

BG: With Bruce, it's sort of hard to tell.

MC: Can you clarify, please?

BG: He plans for every scenario and adjusts those plans accordingly, when real life changes the rules on him. It's very hard to catch him by surprise.

MC: How did you find out?

BG: I…

MC: Ms. Gordon?

BG: A few years back, the annual Policeman's Ball was a costume gala. I was attending. I'd created a version of the Bat-suit to wear. I thought I'd surprise my father. Well, long story short, Killer Moth crashed the party to abduct Bruce Wayne. I thought I could help…

MC: Because of the costume?

BG: Partly. The cowl hid my hair and, between the drape of the cape and the muscle padding of the suit, it was less obvious that I was a woman. And I knew a bit about hand-to-hand combat. More than a bit, actually. Being the police commissioner's daughter, there was always a real possibility that someone might try to abduct me to use as leverage against my father. So, as soon as I was old enough, Dad enrolled me in self-defense classes. Judo, savate, kick-boxing, gymnastics—if I hadn't gotten to college on an academic scholarship, I _might_ have wrangled an athletic one. I figured if I stuck to the shadows, maybe I could pull it off.

MC: Was your father aware?

BG: Of course not. This is confidential, right?

MC: Absolutely.

BG: Good. Yeah, well, it went better than I'd hoped. Of course, I never counted on getting my cowl ripped in the back so my hair showed. Next thing I knew, the media was inquiring about who "Batgirl" was.

MC: Wait. You were Batgirl?

BG: I wore a costume. One night, I became Batgirl. Then I hung up the costume and went back to my life. Or I tried to. Not long after that, I met Batman.

MC: Mr. Wayne.

BG: I didn't know that then. He thanked me for helping and told me to stay clear from that point onward. He… may have said something about my father being a good friend and not wanting to have to explain to him what I was up to.

MC: How did you take that?

BG: I was furious. I mean, not only had I gone out just the one time, but his coming up to me and telling me to stop…

MC: You resented it.

BG: Oh, hell, yeah.

MC: Go on.

BG: Well, I started to work out more. I think it was pride. I told you before that I knew that being the commissioner's daughter had its risks. I didn't want to be in a position where I'd have to depend on Batman—or my father, for that matter—to save me.

MC: So, you had no plans to become a vigilante?

BG: Fantasies. But I really didn't like the idea of going behind my father's back, and I knew he'd never condone it.

MC: Ah. So, getting back to Mr. Wayne…

BG: Sorry. Yes. Okay. Gotham Libraries had a Books-on-Wheels program for shut-ins. Still did, the last time I checked, which—admittedly—was a few years back. It's a library van that drives to people who aren't able to get to one of the branches and essentially brings a branch to them.

MC: Yes, I'm familiar with it. Go on.

BG: Usually, we had a designated driver for the van, but if he or she couldn't make it, we tried to get another staff member to make the rounds. One night in July, I volunteered. I had a delivery in Park Row. And, as I was slowing down to make sure that I didn't miss the address, I happened to look down an alley and I saw Batman drop something on the pavement. He seemed… I dunno… less… scary. Kind of… down.

MC: What did you do?

BG: I kept driving. I made the delivery. When I was coming back, the alley was deserted. I admit it: I was curious. I got out of the van and went to explore—and yes, I know just how stupid that was.

MC: Go on.

BG: It was dark. I had a flashlight on my key-ring. That didn't give me much light, but it was enough. I saw two roses on the pavement. And… things fell into place. Everyone knew about the Wayne murders. I could only really think of one reason why Batman would be leaving flowers in Crime Alley.

MC: What did you do next?

BG: Well, I… got attacked. Three thugs in gang colors. I fought them off—all those self-defense classes paid off. They broke and ran. I looked up, and I saw him standing there, watching. A week later, Mr. Wayne came into the library and said that he was looking for someone to tutor his son for the SATs. He wondered if I'd be interested. There was something about the way he asked that made me think there was more to it than that.

MC: Was there?

BG: Yes. After I'd been working with Dick for about an hour, he asked if I could join him in the gym. Then, he proceeded to dissect every move I'd made the other night. He pointed out everything I'd done right and everything that would have failed against more-seasoned opponents. Then he asked me if I wanted to learn more. I accepted.

MC: Why?

BG: If Batman wanted to give you pointers in self-defense, wouldn't you jump at the chance? I'd never planned on being Batgirl, and it didn't take me long to realize that I wasn't interested in the whole cape-and-tights bit. I did get to know the women who became Batgirl afterwards. I mentored one of them, in fact. And… that was how Dick and I started to get to know each other. Oh, and he aced the SATs.

MC: Did Mr. Wayne ever encourage you to engage in illegal activity?

* * *

_Interviewee: Richard Grayson (Wayne)_

RG: Not at first, no. When my parents were killed, he wanted to bring the guy who engineered it to justice, but he didn't intend to involve me.

MC: But he did involve you.

RG: Um… I sort of involved me. He told me to stay out of it. I didn't listen.

MC: Couldn't he control your behavior?

RG: To be fair, I don't think he expected me to climb out a second-story window, then move along a four-inch ledge for about twenty feet until I got to a tree, climb down, and hide myself in the back seat of the car under a tarp when Alfred went on an errand.

MC: How old were you?

RG: Almost nine.

MC: And after that, he made you Robin?

RG: No, after that, he chewed me out for putting myself in danger, grounded me, and installed a window safety lock, so it only opened about four inches. I didn't even know he was Batman, at the time.

MC: So… wait? When he did all that… was he Bruce or Batman?

RG: Batman chewed me out and escorted me back to the manor. Alfred sent me upstairs and told me that Bruce would be up shortly to discuss matters with me. I was tempted to go the window route again, but…

MC: But?

RG: I was afraid he'd decide to tell Child Services I wasn't happy there, since I kept running away. And I knew I was lucky. Running off to join the circus may be something of a cliché, but there were a couple of roustabouts who had done that—run off from situations that were a lot worse than the one in which I'd landed. Besides, I figured I had a lecture coming to me.

MC: What kind of lecture? Was he abusive? Verbally or physically?

RG: No, absolutely not. He told me he understood. I didn't believe him. Then he told me about how he lost his parents, and that he took me in because he thought he could help me. I told him the only way he could help me was… was by giving me five minutes alone with Zucco. He just shook his head and told me that I was confined to the manor until further notice, and that he was putting the safety lock in.

MC: How did you take that?

RG: I was angry. I think I felt a little guilty. No, I know I felt more than a little guilty. I went downstairs to apologize. Alfred told me he was out.

MC: Being Batman?

RG: Yeah. Not that I realized it at the time. He was actually out looking for my parents' killer. But all I saw was that he'd given me grief and bailed on me again.

MC: Again?

RG: He wasn't home that much. He was in the office, or out on patrol—something he called "having other plans," or sleeping in until noon.

MC: When did he make you Robin?

RG: Well, "Robin" was actually a nickname my mother had for me. I was born on the first day of spring. I guess things really got started, on the night of the Fourth of July. I'd been living there for about five weeks. That night, Bruce went out as usual and so did I.

MC: Where did you go?

RG: The outskirts of town. The circus was still there since the police investigation was ongoing. I decided to do a little investigating of my own. It didn't go well. Someone clubbed me from behind with a gun butt. I went down, split my forehead on a rock. And then, Batman showed up. He just… swooped down from I don't know where. One second the sky was empty, the next, there was this huge cape looming up behind the guy who beat me. I was a bit dazed, maybe concussed, but he took the guy out, pinned him down and told him the circus was off limits to him. I passed out and woke up in his… um… HQ. He asked me… scratch that. He told me that I wanted to find out who killed my parents. I didn't deny it. Then he said he couldn't let me go out untrained or I'd get hurt or worse.

MC: How did you react?

RG: I knew he was right. I just couldn't figure out why he cared—or why he kept popping up in my life more than Bruce did. So I asked him. Using roughly those words. And he pulled off the cowl and told me we had a lot to talk about.

MC: And he made you Robin?

RG: No. He made me practice. I honestly thought he meant to keep me training until I turned eighteen, but we did go out on patrol. Once. I wasn't ready.

MC: What happened?

RG: I got careless and my anger got the better of me. Luckily, he had my back.

MC: Elaborate?

RG: The perp had a heart attack. Batman called an ambulance while I was accusing the guy of faking it.

MC: Did the perp make it?

RG: Yes, but I didn't know it then.

MC: When did you find out?

RG: After the sentencing. As it turned out, my testimony wasn't needed to put him away—not after a full confession.

MC: Wait, so Batman left you hanging all those months?

RG: That was more or less my reaction when he told me the truth. I think it was partly a scare tactic, partly a test. He wanted to scare me into not letting my emotions run away with me in the field. And he wanted to test how far I was okay with letting them take me.

MC: And you don't consider that abusive?

RG: Not under the circumstances, no. He was testing if I was ready to be his partner. More, he was testing if I had what it took. And that meant not crossing the line to becoming a killer. He needed to know if I could leave things in the law's hands, even when I really wanted to take them further.

MC: It sounds like you failed.

RG: It felt like it, too, but in his book… it wasn't that I killed—or thought I had; it was that I didn't mean for it to go that far, I wasn't… pleased by it, and I didn't see it as an option going forward. I failed the 'ready to patrol as his partner from tonight on' test, but passed the 'possibly fit to be his partner at some point in the future' test.

MC: What happened after that?

RG: After that, I went back to training. He didn't want me out again. Looking back now, I understand it, but back then, all I wanted was another chance to prove myself.

MC: So you went out again to look for trouble.

RG: No. That time, trouble came to me…

* * *

It was taking everything Bruce had to keep his temper under control as Dr. Cinar continued the assessment.

"So, after your parents were killed, it sounds as though you transferred your filial devotion to Mr. Pennyworth and Dr. Thompkins, and now that they're out of the picture, you've found a father figure in Mr. Gordon, is that about right?"

"I was eight years old when my parents were killed," Bruce said evenly. "Alfred and Dr. Thompkins did their best to step into that void, but I didn't appreciate it until years later.

Dr. Cinar nodded with something that might have appeared to be sympathy. "So, one set of parents abandoned you when you were eight—"

"They were murdered," Bruce corrected.

"Yes, but as a result, they weren't there when you needed them most. Then your eldest son dropped off the face of the earth for eighteen months—"

"After I did everything possible to alienate him."

"Yes, I do notice that you try to take responsibility for the actions of those around you. Still, it's evident that his departure contributed to your abandonment issues."

"No." The police psychiatrist was wrong, he knew it. But he didn't seem to be able to come up with a counter argument beyond his one-word denial. "Well, I suppose I can see how you might take it as abandonment issues, but—"

Dr. Cinar nodded with satisfaction. "Precisely. And your second son abandoned first your moral code, then your home, then—in death—you, and finally, when he miraculously returned, it was to turn his back on everything you stood for."

"He thought I'd abandoned him!"

Dr. Cinar clasped his hands together before him and smiled smugly. "Of course, Mr. Wayne, of course. There's that insistence on holding yourself personally accountable for the behaviour of others, once more. Now," he consulted his notes, "your third Robin… oh, yes, several abandonments at critical junctures here… hmmm… likely why you haven't been able to form very many personal connections. At least not… appropriate ones."

Bruce clenched his teeth. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Well, clearly you've had a long string of female companions, very few of whom you've even considered committing to. Those that do get close, you find some reason to push away." He looked down his spectacles at Bruce. "Would it perhaps be a cover for feelings that are… _in_appropriate?"

Bruce fought down the urge to spring to his feet and walk out. "I'm still not sure what you're getting at," he replied.

"Did you ever wish to pursue a romantic relationship with your guardian?"

"What?"

"Well, it's plain from the way you talk about him that you loved and admired him a great deal. Some might say you idolized him. And, of course, his not being a blood relation would—"

"Absolutely not," Bruce interrupted.

Dr. Cinar frowned. "You seem rather reluctant to even consider the possibility. I was under the impression that you prided yourself on looking at evidence from a logical, rather than an emotional standpoint. And yet, here you are, unwilling to even entertain the notion that your neuroses could stem from feelings that you've long been suppressing."

Bruce felt his face grow hot. "I'm unwilling to entertain the notion because I know that it's as preposterous as… as… Joker winning the next Nobel Peace Prize." _Careful, Bruce. If Luthor could become president…_

Cinar frowned. "Now, your feelings for Mr. Gordon…"

* * *

_Are you there?_

Martha Kent smiled and began to type a reply. Her forehead creased as she read the next line:

_Nhjhjfhhpi8ttm n =-s_

She erased what she had been writing, and typed instead:

_Did the keyboard just fall? Or did Selina give you a new kitten that thinks computers were made to walk upon?_

The answer wasn't long in coming.

_Neither. But I'm afraid I have a beautiful young girl on my knee, who's young enough to be my granddaughter. _

Martha laughed aloud.

_And how IS Helena this fine afternoon?_

The response wasn't long in coming.

_Mdxrhycgjn,,,,,,mbvjyh,frhrtr_

_Ah. That well._ She sighed. _And how are you doing?_

A line of type appeared below her own a few moments later.

_This weather isn't the greatest for my leg, but all things considered, I've still got my health. Not something I should be taking for granted at my age. Not that you'd know anything about that._

Martha chuckled. _Charmer. _

_I try. How's the planting coming?_

_I'm seeing quite a few sprouts in the greenhouses. Once the threat of a late frost is over, we'll have to start moving them—not to mention sowing the later crops._

There was a pause. _Wish I'd known something about setting up greenhouses back in the No Man's Land days. Until Poison Ivy started allowing exports from the park conservatories, we were mostly eating dried and canned. At least until the carrots and tomatoes came up._

Martha bit her lip. _We should have done more. We wanted to. There was talk of sending some of our surplus your way, but more cynical voices prevailed. Some said dropping parcels over Gotham would only incite rioting. Others said the government might just fire on anyone trying to breach the barricades._

_That's possible_, Jim typed back. _Not that I'd have wanted to hear it back then._

_Do you still have a garden?_ Martha typed.

The answer wasn't long in coming. _Well, at the moment, it's more like potted parsley and ornamental chillies. But after all the trouble Bruce and I went to clearing the kitchen gardens last suma0frasnjgfpoksorigt_

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, Jim resumed.

_Sorry, Martha. I'd better go put someone down for a nap. But as I was saying, I think I'll be doing a bit of planting outdoors in the spring. Of course, if you have any tips…_

Martha smiled. _I just might. Skrype back later? Not too late, mind. Busy day tomorrow. As always._

The reply wasn't long in coming. _If not tonight, then tomorrow. Take care._

_You too._

* * *

Dick closed the office door behind him and wiped his brow theatrically, even though there was no audience to see him. It actually hadn't been as bad as he'd thought it would be; despite what Gordon had said about police vetting procedures tightening up over the last few years, Dick remembered his own background check as having been a lot worse.

He took the elevator down to the second floor and headed toward the office number that Chiarello had given him. When he was nearly to his destination, a door opened and Bruce strode out. The door closed softly behind him.

For a moment, as Bruce walked toward him, Dick thought that all was well. Then the mask faltered.

Dick took a hesitant step closer. "Bruce…?"

Bruce pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a moment. "Not now," he said curtly. "Let's go." He moved off rapidly in the direction from which Dick had come.

Dick followed.

* * *

"Don't go back to the manor, yet," Bruce said abruptly, as Dick put his key into the ignition.

Dick nodded. "Where to, then?"

Bruce was silent for a long moment. "Away from here. Just… just drive."

Dick nodded. "You got it. Got a direction in mind?"

Silence.

Dick thought for a moment. "I don't think I've been up to South Darby for a long time. You?"

When Bruce didn't answer, Dick took it both as a 'no' and as permission to proceed. South Darby was in the northeastern corner of Bristol, about as far from Wayne Manor as one could get and still be in the same township. "We'll take the scenic route," Dick added, heading west toward the Vincefinkel Bridge—one of two that connected the three islands that made up Gotham City with Somerset Township on the mainland. From there, he headed north along Starkings Parkway, keeping one eye peeled to make sure he didn't miss the sign for the Mooney Bridge, which would start them looping back toward Bristol.

Bruce didn't utter a word until the chain-link fence and wide open fields of Archie Goodwin Memorial Airport came into view. When he did, it was in a voice so low that Dick missed it at first.

"Sorry?"

Bruce's hand locked around the Mulsanne's recessed door handle as his eyes screwed tightly closed. "Have," he repeated himself in a slightly louder voice, "have I changed at all in the last three years? Or have I just been fooling myself these past months?"

He _would_ ask that at a time when Dick needed to keep his eyes on the road. "You really have to ask?" he exclaimed.

"I wouldn't have thought so before this afternoon," Bruce said dully, "but now—"

"Now, you keep thinking that way," Dick's voice was firm. "Because I can tell you this much: before Arkham, you wouldn't have invited the Kents to spend Christmas. You wouldn't be going this whole police route at all. And you sure as hell wouldn't have hugged me before I went into quarantine."

"If I hadn't," Bruce replied, "and if it had been smallpox, I would have spent the rest of my life regretting not having done so when I had the chance."

"And before Arkham, you wouldn't have let yourself consider that possibility." He changed lanes, preparing to take the exit to the bridge. "C'mon, I know you, Bruce. You would have left me in Alfred's care, telling me, him, and anyone who challenged you that I was going to beat it—and yeah, you did say that before I went into quarantine, but then it was encouragement, not denial." He paused. When Bruce said nothing, he went on. "Going by your past track record, you would have gone out on patrol, taking your time with it, staying out as long as possible and expecting me to be on the road to recovery by the time you got back. Then, when that didn't happen, you would have just spent more time away, because you wouldn't have been able to deal with it, so you'd have thrown yourself into work, the office, anything that would keep you from having to face what was happening."

Bruce flinched. "I never realized…" he whispered.

"Yeah, I know. But bottom line? That was then." He took one hand off the wheel and gave Bruce's arm a quick squeeze. "So, if you really don't know if there've been any changes, there's proof right there." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce open his mouth to speak. "And in case you were about to mention that you _couldn't_ patrol this time, one: right up until the point you were arrested, you were out there even though you knew that Akins wasn't sanctioning it. Two: even if you weren't going to patrol, we both know that you could have gone out, or just stayed upstairs, or spent my whole quarantine period holed up in the lab, refusing to take time out to check up on me. So, sorry. Not buying that one either."

Bruce's jaw closed.

Dick grinned.

A moment later, a rueful smile ghosted across Bruce's face, as they skirted Brentwood, headed into Gotham Heights. He let go of the door handle.

He didn't say anything further, but it was apparent to Dick that he was more relaxed than he had been when they'd started the drive.

It was nearly ten minutes before Bruce spoke again. "Dick?"

"Hmmm?"

"Is there anything in South Darby that you actually wanted to see, or was this a strategic move to position us closer to the manor so it would be a shorter drive when I was ready to go back?"

Dick tilted his head to one side. "I thought you'd get a kick out of the scenic rail yards and chemical companies," he said innocently. "Or the auxiliary cave, complete with punching bags and free weights in prime condition."

Bruce shook his head, but the half-smile was back. "Turn it around and let's go home."

"You're on." He took a deep breath. "Guess you've probably had to spill your guts enough for one day, but if you do want to talk about it…"

Bruce blinked. "I just did."

"Oh. Right." He'd always been good at deciphering Riddler's cryptic clues—a skill which had a relevant application now. "It's just… all I got out of it was that someone who's never met you before decided that you were exactly the way you were three years ago, before you ever even walked into his office; and somehow you decided that he's a better authority than the people who've known you forever, because he's got a couple of pieces of sheepskin on his wall."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. Then his shoulders slumped. "Unfortunately," he said, "he does have a certain amount of authority in my circumstances."

"True," Dick admitted, his smile dimming fractionally.

Bruce made a disgusted sound. "Chiarello's convinced that my temper is a time bomb, waiting to go off. Cinar…" He sighed. "Cinar made me feel like I was eight years old again. Helpless." He nearly spit the last word out. "As though all the work that I've done since… since I started working with Alex was just a façade. He attempted to test his theory."

"And?"

"I don't know." He sighed. "I didn't dissolve in tears. I didn't throw his snow globe out the window either—although I'll admit I was tempted. But I don't know if I convinced him to re-evaluate his hypothesis, or whether he interpreted my refusal to accept that hypothesis as denial bordering on delusion." He let out another long breath. "Thanks. I think I just needed to hear someone else disagree with his opinion."

Dick gave Bruce a hard look. Then he turned back to the road. "We're having a spar when we get back."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't need—"

"Great. I do. Either I go out tonight and give that guy a piece of my mind, or you help me burn off some of my energy now. Your call."

Bruce looked like he was about to protest, but something checked him. "Spar," he said finally.

Dick gave him a curt nod. "Spar it is."

* * *

"I appreciate your taking the time to come back, Mr. Paxton," Chiarello said. "I realize that you're a busy man, and I'm sorry to ask you down here on a Sunday evening."

Les smiled benevolently. "Not at all, detective. I recognize the need to be thorough. Especially where Bruce is concerned. How can I be of service?"

Chiarello frowned. "I was wondering if you could clarify for me how Mr. Wayne—Bruce, if you like—how he was able to give you all the slip when he needed to get away quickly. I mean, obviously, during the day, if he wasn't at the office, you wouldn't have been keeping tabs on him, but at fundraisers… late-night meetings…"

Paxton spread his hands expansively. "Well, he missed more than a few of those, too. But honestly, I'm not sure whether you've ever attended one of our galas. They tend to be rather crowded. It's very possible to get away, with nobody the wiser."

"Ah," Chiarello nodded. "Now, Bruce has, on occasion, needed his presence to be noted in one place while he was off doing something else. Did you ever detect anything of that nature? It's fine if you didn't. He would likely have hired the best."

Paxton's eyes narrowed. "You mean like an actor. A… a stunt double?"

"Well, it would have been Bruce attempting the dangerous stunts, when you think about it. But in essence…"

"Why that sonnovab… gun," Paxton amended hastily. "So, that's how he… yes, Detective, there were times when Bruce seemed more oblivious than usual. I guess I should have suspected but… well… when he was around, he always did seem more than a bit muddled." His frown yielded to a relieved smile. "That actually would explain a good deal."

Chiarello nodded. "Um… maybe you can help me with this one, actually. Pursuant to an unrelated investigation. Let's say that we needed to hire a stand-in for a delicate operation. Is there a particular agency that you'd suggest we approach? Someone you can recommend?"

Paxton chuckled at that. "I'm sorry, detective. I'd like to help, but in all honesty, Bruce would probably be a better person than I to ask for assistance in that regard."

"Ah," Chiarello leaned back. "Now that puzzles me."

"Does it?" Paxton asked, his hearty smile giving way to surprise.

"Well…yeah. See, someone matching Wayne's description was brought in last night; the reason isn't important right now. The thing is, he's leading us to believe that you were somehow involved."

"What?" The smile was gone, replaced by a thunderous look. "Surely, you don't seriously think that…"

"We have to investigate every angle," Chiarello said, raising his hands to chest level, palms facing out. "In most circumstances, hiring an impersonator isn't illegal, of course. I'm just trying to see whether the individual's contention holds any merit. Though I must admit I'm at a loss as to why you'd need to hire such an individual, when Mr. Wayne is more or less divorced from the day-to-day activities at PMWE at present."

"Precisely," Paxton said, smiling once more. Then his eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Unless Wayne hired him to try to implicate me in something or other."

"Does Wayne have some sort of grudge against you?"

Paxton gave an exaggerated shrug. "Who knows what he was thinking? I was under the impression that he was in Arkham due to some mental health issues… delusion, perhaps? Maybe they didn't fix him up as well as they'd hoped."

Chiarello nodded. "I suppose that's possible," he allowed. "Mind you, that doesn't explain how the impersonator had your personal cell phone number on him; the same one you gave me. The new number you were assigned when you changed service providers," he paused a beat before he continued. "Four months ago. Well after Mr. Wayne's direct involvement with the company had ceased."

Paxton's expression turned icy as he sat up straighter in his chair. "I don't believe I'd care to discuss this matter any further without my lawyer present."

Chiarello nodded again. "That's probably a good call on your part."

* * *

"I've been waiting for you to get back," Barbara exclaimed, wheeling over to him with a broad smile. "How'd your interview go?"

Dick bent down and kissed her, but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. "Better than my first one, when I signed on with BPD. You?"

Barbara sighed. "Well, I fudged a bit on how long I operated as Batgirl. I couldn't lie outright, but I didn't want to share everything."

"Right," Dick nodded absently.

"Everything okay?"

Dick sighed. "I almost wish I were a drinking man. I think I could use a shot of something, round about now. Except that since I don't usually touch the stuff, I probably haven't got the tolerance for anything stronger than a beer or two."

Barbara pressed her lips together. "Well," she said slowly, "you _are_ over 21, and you aren't patrolling tonight. If you wanted to go down to the corner… or…"

He gave her a sad smile. "Nah. It's okay. It's probably better I don't. I'm about this close to tearing that shrink a new one, and I don't think I need anything impairing my judgment right now."

His tone was light, but there was a note of bitterness beneath the flippancy. "I gather Bruce's evaluation didn't go well," she replied.

Dick let out a long breath. "He was pretty worked up when he came out, but we were expecting that. He did a bit of venting about it in the car—venting for him, I mean. I could tell he was still pretty upset, so I challenged him to a practice spar, knowing that I was probably setting myself up as a punching bag. That was when I found out the rest of it."

Barbara hesitated for a moment. Then she wheeled over to the liquor cabinet.

"What are you…?"

"Getting the brandy and Kailua," she said. "Half an ounce of each in a cup of black coffee, with a teaspoon of sugar, whipped cream and a cherry on top. You're going to have one and I'm going to have one. And then, we're going to lock the doors and windows and just have a quiet evening together. Keep talking."

Dick needed little urging. "Do you know why he started getting so… cold when I was a teenager?"

Barbara froze, her hand more than halfway to the brandy bottle. "I… I thought it was because he couldn't deal with your struggle to be your own person, but if you're asking me… I guess not?"

"No," Dick let out a sigh."I mean… that was probably part of it. Only… He went to pick me up at school one day. I must've been about fourteen. He had the window down; I guess he wanted to call out to me when he saw me coming. And he heard some kid make a crack about…" He broke off.

"Dick?"

"You know the tabloid rumors? Three guys living together under one roof? Maybe there was a reason why no _woman_ caught Bruce's eye? And since the paparazzi never caught him in a compromising position with any men in public, there was speculation about what went on at home…"

"Oh my G-d."

Dick shook his head. "Kids say stupid things sometimes. Hurtful things. I dealt. I didn't want to tell Bruce about it because… you know, snitching wasn't exactly something you did. And I didn't want to hurt him. And there wasn't anything I would have wanted him to do about it anyway. I was afraid he'd call up the principal, make a stink, I don't know. Like I said, I was fourteen." He gave her a pained smile. "Kids _think_ stupid things sometimes. Anyway, Bruce decided—without talking it out or letting on he'd heard anything—that the best way to squelch that kind of talk was to be extra careful that nobody saw anything that could be misconstrued. You heard about that whole debacle, not so long ago, where some photographer with a long lens snapped topless photos of Kate Middleton, while she was sunbathing in private? Bruce didn't want to take a chance on someone getting shots of… anything that could be taken out of context if anyone took shots of the grounds or the manor from outside the property line."

He bit his lip. "I'll put the coffee on."

"Thanks." Barbara murmured. "So, all that time, he backed off…"

"Because he thought he was doing me a favor. For my own good or whatever."

"And today, the shrink thought that he backed off because… what? Because he really did have those feelings?"

"Well," Dick said disgustedly, "the shrink seemed to have it in his head that there was a…" He reddened and looked away. "…A sexual component to his feelings for anyone who's lived on the property for any length of time."

Barbara set the two liquor bottles down on the counter with a bang. "You're not serious. That… person implied that Bruce had been sleeping with you? "

"Well, wanted to. And Alfred," Dick said disgustedly. "Apparently, the guy brought up Jason. And that time when Tim was living at the manor while his dad was in the hospital. And…" He stopped. "And… that's about it."

Dick hadn't known she could turn around the chair so quickly. Her eyes were blazing. "Of all the… Bruce and… You were kids! And Alfred? He suggested that Bruce…" Her expression hardened. "You were going to mention my father, just now. Weren't you?"

Dick nodded, tight-lipped.

"The shrink implied that Bruce was… The court appointed my dad to keep an eye on him. If they were… involved… argh! I… the power dynamics… the abuse of trust… the… the…" She was sputtering. "He actually implied that they were sleeping together?"

"Or wanted to," Dick repeated. "Obviously, Bruce told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, but the guy sounded like his mind was already made up. Anyway, you can understand why Bruce was—"

"Upset? Oh, yeah. What I don't understand is why this guy even has a license to practice. Well when I get through with him, he'll be lucky if he can get a license to fish! I'll—"

"Babs…"

"Don't 'Babs' me! Damn it, Bruce has been through enough already, without that guy jumping to those kinds of half-baked conclusions. Ugh! I'll kill him, I'll…"

Dick caught her hands in his and squeezed. "No, you won't," he said softly.

Barbara closed her eyes and nodded. "No, I won't. But I can still dream."

"Oh, yeah."

She sighed. "I was going to just have that coffee break to be sociable, but I think I could actually use one, right about now."

"Coffee'll be ready soon," Dick smiled. "Oh, I almost forgot; I need to check in with someone; fill him in on what's been happening lately. It'll just take a minute…"

* * *

"Thank you. Yes, this does put a better slant on things. Let me test the waters and I'll get back to you."

The man hung up phone and then immediately keyed in a different number from memory. "We need to meet," he said without preamble. "There've been some new developments regarding the gala and Ms. Ryerson's involvement..."


	12. Chapter 11: Close to the Edge

_You say it's got no chance_

_You make no mistakes_

'_Cause you've been close to the edge before and walked away_

_But your day's comin'_

_Don't kid yourself_

_And when it comes you'll be down before you knew you fell_

—_Marc McClurg, Jerry Salley, "You Can't Break the Fall"_

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie and PJ for the beta! Thanks to PJ for police procedure help. Thanks to Elle and Xenith for legal advice.

"You Can't Break the Fall" written by Marc McClurg and Jerry Salley. Recorded by Joe Nichols on his _Man with a Memory_ album (Universal South, 2002).

**Chapter 11—Close to the Edge**

Michael Abbott glanced pointedly around the board room. "Aren't we missing someone?" he demanded.

Ron shook his head. "Les wasn't invited tonight."

Michael blinked. "Wait. You mean that when you asked us here…" His expression hardened. "Just what are you trying to pull, Ron?"

"Maybe you should be asking yourself what Les was trying to pull, Mike." Ron took a deep breath and rose to his feet, bracing his hands on the polished oak table and hoping that nobody would see that they were sweating. "Last week, Sharon Ryerson had a temporary restraining order issued against Bruce Wayne. There was no legal justification for doing so, and it was done without the prior knowledge of myself or Lester Paxton. However, Les took it upon himself to justify the restraining order by hiring an actor to impersonate Bruce Wayne and," he took another breath, "make it appear as though Wayne was in violation. The actor was caught."

"And Les?" Teresa Korning ventured.

Ron exhaled. "Well, that's the thing, isn't it? I mean… if you were an actor hired to do a job and you then found out that what you were doing was, in fact, illegal, and that you could be facing—I haven't looked up the statutes, to be honest. Fine, imprisonment, community service… it doesn't really matter. Bottom line is, if it were me, I'd be trying to prove I had no idea what I was getting involved with."

"Which means," Ross Kendricks said heavily, "that there's a good chance that this is going to reflect back on Paxton."

Ron nodded. "Unfortunately, that's not all of it. The actor in question has a criminal record. Les knew it going in. Matter of fact, it was a big reason why he hired him—he wanted someone whom he figured wouldn't care if the job was on the shady side. Obviously, this could be a serious concern if the press finds out. A PMWE director hiring a known criminal to discredit a former CEO and current majority shareholder…"

Abbott let loose with a loud expletive. "Can this be traced back to us?"

"Not unless Paxton tries to implicate us," Ron replied. "Of course, he might try to do exactly that."

Sonia Arnold frowned. "How do you know so much about it, Ron?"

Ron sighed. "Because Paxton tried to pull me in. Sorry. I know I've been behind him one hundred percent on other matters, but I had to draw the line there. And considering that this is now poised to blow up in his face…"

Ross Kendricks paled. "If word of this gets out to the media… Ron, you're a bit of a spin doctor. Can we get out of this unscathed?"

Ron fought not to smile. He'd been hoping for a question like this. "Well," he said slowly, "the last I looked, the 'P' in PMWE didn't stand for Paxton—much as he might like it to." He took a deep breath. "Okay. Everyone remembers that what set this whole thing off was Les getting word that Bruce Wayne is attending the gala, and his jumping to the conclusion that it's a precursor to Bruce's retaking the reins here. Honestly, I've been asking myself how likely that is, in light of certain recent developments. For example," he continued, "in the last couple of days, I think we've all been contacted by the police and made aware that Bruce Wayne is looking at a midlife career change."

There were a few startled nods.

"Okay. We can assume that before they approve him—if they approve him—he's going to have to undergo a thorough psychological…" he frowned. "…or should that be a psychiatric assessment? Anyway, I'd say that at this point, we forget about keeping him from attending the gala. Either he passes the psych assessment—whatever the 'psych' is short for—in which case, he probably is fit to return to the office… If he even wants to, I mean… or he fails the assessment, which gives us stronger grounds for arguing against his return. But if he passes the assessment, he's going to be training for another job—one which would almost definitely interfere with any hours he might want to put in here, at PMWE. In other words, maybe we've been looking at this all wrong, and Wayne just wants a night at a society dinner—like old times." He shrugged. "He _is _president emeritus. Why should it be cause for concern if he wants to attend a Wayne Foundation function? It's his foundation, after all. Regardless, unless and until he makes a move toward regaining his former position—a more concrete move than attending a Foundation charity gala, I mean—I think we can sit back and observe."

"And if he passes the assessment?" Sonia asked. "Do we want him back?"

Ron shrugged. "If he passes the assessment, we might find it harder to stop him, if that's his choice. Like I just said, though, I'm not sure how much time he'll be able to devote to the company if he's also going to be wearing a badge. My guess is that he'll do what he's always done: trust Fox to handle things and put in a couple of appearances, every now and again. When you think about it, I don't honestly believe his return would significantly alter the status quo."

They were nodding again, but Ron noticed a few smiles, as well. He allowed his own to surface briefly. "Now, as far as Paxton is concerned…" he said slowly.

"We weren't consulted on this latest course of action," Sonia Arnold said flatly.

Abbott half-rose to his feet. "He's gone the limit and I think we can all agree that we're not going down with him."

"If the media should get wind of this…" Sean Vansickle's face was pasty. "In addition to publicity we don't need, can you imagine how the shareholders will react?"

"Unfortunately," Ron nodded, "I can and I have. They're going to want blood, and I think we all know whose. The only real question is how many go out along with him. I'd just as soon not have my head among the rolling, and I'm sure most of us feel the same. Or does someone have an objection that they'd like to voice?"

He looked around the room. Five sets of eyes looked back at his and then down at the table. Nobody uttered a word. He nodded, only slightly surprised at how quickly allegiances had shifted. It was easy enough to see which way the wind was blowing now. "Very well. Let's proceed to the next order of business, then." He paused a beat. "Damage control. Specifically with regard to Ryerson."

Kendricks frowned. "She made her bed."

"With PMWE-supplied mattress and box springs," Ron shot back. "Bottom line: Paxton used her, but we let him. If we're worried about media fallout, I don't think it's going to look very good for us if it comes out that we knowingly went along with Paxton's taking advantage of a grieving widow."

"What are you proposing, then?"

Ron told them.

* * *

"That's correct," Abbott spoke into the telephone several minutes later. "We are prepared to continue to pay Ms. Ryerson's legal fees, even though Paxton made the initial arrangement without proper authority or consultation. No," he said, with a strange smile crossing his face, "no, I don't think there's any reason to assign a different attorney, unless the attorney already assigned to the case or Ms. Ryerson specifically requests it. After all, if Les wanted the best for her..." He swatted the air around him as though he could slap down the muffled laughter from some of the other board members. "...Well, even if he's made the offer without going through proper channels, far be it from us to override him. Very good. Thanks, Consuela. We'll be in touch."

He hung up the phone with a smile. "Done!" he announced.

* * *

"You okay?" Selina asked.

Bruce looked up, just in time to catch his daughter as she raced toward his knee with the precision of a guided missile. And if he hugged her a bit more fiercely than usual before he set her back down again, it was only because it felt like ages since he'd last seen her that morning.

"We would have come down to the cave," Selina continued, "but I wasn't sure if you wanted company."

Bruce nodded. "It's probably just as well you didn't." The sofa cushion sagged as Helena clambered up and climbed into his lap. Bruce sighed. "Like mother, like daughter," he said with a faint smile. "Just make yourself at home, why don't you?"

"Well, if you're inviting…" Selina sat down next to him. "…or not?" Selina asked, the playfulness vanishing from her tone.

"I don't mind, Selina," he said, trying to coax some lightness into his own voice, but failing. "I…" He let out a long breath. "I'm honestly not sure how much more of this I can take. Or how much more I'm willing to." He shook his head. "I think I'd prefer they haul out the rack and thumbscrews at this point; there are techniques for coping with physical pain."

She reached toward his shoulder, stopping a fraction of an inch away. "Um… may I?" Bruce shifted marginally closer. She brought her hand down gently at the juncture where his shoulder met his neck. "Hey," she said, "you're pretty tense, yet. You know that, right?"

Bruce nodded. "It went away earlier, but…" Helena squirmed and he lowered her gently to the floor.

Selina made a sympathetic sound. "Trust me?"

"What?"

She smiled. "One of my brighter moves was taking a stress management workshop, a few years back. I know a little bit about massage therapy. If you'd like…"

Bruce considered. He looked over to where Helena had clambered atop an ottoman footstool. She was lying on her stomach, arms and legs dangling, clearly enjoying herself. He smiled. Then, he leaned a bit closer to Selina, turning to present a bit more of his back. As Selina set to work on his shoulders, he felt his muscles relax. He sighed.

"Better?" Her fingers found a tension knot and she set about working it out.

"Don't stop." Bruce murmured.

Selena gave a throaty laugh. "As you command…"

Bruce slumped. "I'm… Honestly? At this point, I don't… ah! …actually care whether I pass or fail. I… ah! …just want this to end."

Selena's hands moved further down along his shoulder blades. "How much more can there be?"

"Don't ask." He let out a long breath as Selina continued to work. "I'm not sure I want to find out."

"You could walk away."

He shook his head. "I don't quit."

"Ah. So this is all pretty much grousing until you get your second wind, then."

Bruce's gasp ended with a growl.

"Well?"

"I… suppose so."

"Okay. Just so we're clear." Her fingers were halfway down his back now. She laughed. "Honestly, you've handled this a lot better than I would. If you did decide it was too much, I wouldn't blame you for backing out now. Nobody could say you didn't give it your best shot."

Bruce nodded an acknowledgment. "Even so," he sighed, "if I don't make it, it'll be because they made that decision—not because I quit before I heard the verdict."

"Mmmm… from what I hear, that's a bit of change from the last time."

For a moment, Bruce wasn't sure what she meant.

"JLA? Protocols?"

"Oh." Bruce shook his head. "No, that was different. Then, I'd destroyed their trust. The vote didn't matter. Unless they had unanimously wanted me in—and I knew that they wouldn't—the wisest course of action was to leave and give them a chance to cool off. Had I stayed… it would have hurt the League more than my departure."

"And now?"

"Now?" Bruce closed his eyes. "Now, I'm hoping that after more than three years, the GCPD has had their chance to cool off and I'll be able to regain their trust. Because, if I can't… then it really is over."

* * *

Chiarello looked up at the knock on his door. A moment later, it opened and a familiar face looked in.

"Commissioner." He rose to his feet. "Come in. I'm just about finishing up the background report, now."

Sawyer entered, her face serious. "What's your decision, Maury?"

"What?" Chiarello chuckled. "Can't take the suspense?" He shook his head. "You win, Commissioner. Damned if I'd be that stable if I'd seen a fraction of what he's been through. Or if I could have kept my cool nearly as well. I only got him to raise his voice once, you know that?" He frowned, noticing that her expression hadn't lightened. "What?"

Sawyer sighed. "Dr. Cinar doesn't agree with your assessment."

Chiarello sniffed. "Now, there's a shocker."

The police commissioner didn't smile. "Maury, I've made no secret of the fact that I want Wayne working for us, but I can't ram this through if he really isn't suited. So, in your opinion, if I were to order a second assessment—gave it over to Tate or Knowlton, this time—would it be reasonable to predict a similar outcome? Or do you think that they would interpret Wayne's reactions differently? And would it be willful blindness on my part not to give full weight to Cinar's initial report?"

"Well," Chiarello said slowly, "Cinar tends to go harder on candidates who didn't grow up in suburbia with two parents, a white picket fence, zero-point-four siblings, and a dog named Spot."

"Maury…"

"Okay, maybe a whole sibling gets a pass from him. You know what I mean. Wayne comes into his office; he's an orphan, unmarried, raised by a single man, has kids he adopted when they were past babyhood… My guess? It wouldn't have mattered about Batman _or_ Arkham. Cinar looked at his bio and made up his mind on the spot. Now, does Wayne have issues that _should_ disqualify him? Hell if I know. Maybe. Not based on my investigation—he passes that with flying colors—but I'm just one part of the picture." He frowned. "Give the file to Knowlton. Tate's only been here a couple of months. He doesn't know you like I do. If he thinks you want Wayne to pass, he'll pass him, hoping to get into your good books. Knowlton's going to be tougher than that, but he'll give Wayne a fairer chance than Cinar did. Still won't be automatic, but then… you don't want automatic, do you?"

Sawyer smiled. "Thanks, Maury. I look forward to seeing your report."

* * *

Bruce hung up the telephone quietly. Then he turned around and punched the wall. The broom that he had left leaning in a corner instead of returning to the closet fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Bad news?" Selina asked from the doorway.

Bruce spun to face her, his anger giving way to resignation. "Good and bad," he said, "and I'm not sure which is which. That was Chiarello. I failed the psych evaluation. They're redoing it tomorrow at nine. I was this close to telling them to let it stand."

"You could call them back," Selina pointed out. "I mean, if you're really ready to drop it, then drop it."

Bruce sighed. "I'll admit it's tempting, but if this is something that I can do, then…" He took a deep breath. "If nothing else, my time out of costume has forced me to address various weaknesses that I've overcompensated for in the past. We… know that I'm not the easiest person to know. My regular coping strategies aren't particularly adequate for the long-term, but until recently, I'd never bothered to take the time to learn new ones. Now, I've at least made a start."

Selina nodded. "Okay, but…?"

Bruce sighed. "I need to improve my teamwork, too—and not with a team that will accept my orders because they've done so in the past." He shook his head. "I have my blind spots and my… issues. I need to work with people who are going to be willing to challenge me, instead of just repeating 'He's Batman; of course he's right.'" Bruce winced. "I can't think of a bigger challenge than working with people who've witnessed one of my more spectacular failures. And," he let out a long breath, "no, I'm not looking forward to the experience. Which is all the more reason why I have to."

Selina nodded. "So… tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Bruce nodded back. "And let's hope that this is the end of it. One way or another."

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Lester Paxton arrived at PMWE. He'd passed an uncomfortable few hours in a holding cell with a number of unsavory-looking individuals, before being transported to Central Booking. They'd handcuffed him for the trip, he remembered. He'd been seething. Did these idiots have no idea who he was? They'd confiscated his wallet and cell phone at Central. He'd had to call his wife collect from a payphone to get her to contact his lawyer. He was glad he'd made sure to tell her to call his squash partner, Cliff Maxwell, rather than the 24-hour line for PMWE's in-house counsel. This was going to have to be on his dime, and Cliff was one of the best.

As for False Face, Paxton hadn't seen him. Doubtless, he'd been in some other cell. Just as well. Paxton felt like he could have cheerfully killed the man with his bare hands. Well, maybe someone else had… No. He doubted he could be that lucky.

It had been 9 AM before he'd been brought before a judge, 9:15 before he'd been released on $75,000 bail. He'd been seething, but he'd paid it. Then he'd gone home to shower and change his clothes before showing up at the office. He supposed he could have stayed home, but he wasn't about to put his personal issues ahead of business. Besides, he needed to speak to Chester and find out exactly what had happened that night. He'd been trying him since Saturday night, but the VP of Marketing wasn't returning his calls. Maybe Chester was afraid to face him? Paxton couldn't blame him, but he still needed to know exactly what had happened with Ryerson. Zack had been no help…

"Oh, Mr. Paxton?" his assistant called to him when he would have stalked into his office without his usual 'Good morning'.

Paxton sighed. "Yes, Mariette?"

Mariette tensed at the testy note in his voice. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Lucius Fox asked to see you at your earliest convenience. He did say that he needed to talk to you in person."

"Oh, did he, now?" Paxton demanded.

"Yes, sir."

His jaw set. "Very well," he said. "As soon as it's convenient, I'll be delighted to accommodate his request." Without another word, he marched into his office and shut the door behind him. Once inside, he hit Ron Chester's extension. It rang twice.

"Hello. This is Ron Chester—"

"Chester, you idiot! Because of your incompe—"

"...telephone, or in a meeting. Please leave your name, telephone number, and a brief message, and I will return your call at the earliest convenience."

Everything was 'at the earliest convenience' and none of it was convenient enough for him! "You know damned well who this is, Chester!" he snarled. "Call me!"

He slammed the phone down.

* * *

"Okay, so as I understand it, when you were in your teens, you left Gotham alone."

Bruce sighed. "Yes."

"Why?"

"It was necessary." The new psychiatrist—Knowlton, he'd said his name was—regarded him thoughtfully, waiting for him to elaborate. "I'd already learned as much as I could in Gotham without calling too much attention to myself. I didn't want to be known as a multiple… let's call it 'black belt,' even though that designation is meaningless in a number of martial art disciplines. To learn my skills discreetly, I had to go to the source."

"Meaning the Far East."

"Meaning wherever it was necessary to go," he clarified. "India, Tibet, Japan, Brazil… France…"

"Did you tell anyone where you were?"

"Yes and no." Bruce smiled slightly. "Alfred was former British Intelligence. I tried to cover my tracks, lay false trails, give him just enough information to let him know that I was alive and well, but not so much that he could track me. Except that on my birthday, without fail, there would be something. A card, a phone call, a messenger at the door of whatever hotel or hut I was living in with instructions on where to go to pick up a wire transfer—there was a point where I wondered whether he'd implanted a microchip in my arm before I left. It wasn't until years later that he let on that he had a network of former intelligence contacts scattered across the globe—all of them keeping an eye on me."

"Mmmm…" Knowlton made a notation. "Now, I know you've indicated that, at a certain point, each of your sons has needed to strike out on their own, too, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you try to keep them at home?"

"I tried to keep them safe. On my terms, not theirs—although it's taken me time to recognize that. They refused to accept those terms."

"And you let them go."

"What else could I have done?"

Knowlton frowned. "I'm not passing judgment, Mr. Wayne. Just clarifying. After they left… what happened? Did you wash your hands of them or…"

"That's not a fair question," Bruce said, trying not to sound defensive. "Dick was angry at my decision. I was angry at him for not abiding by it. I didn't want to make things worse by chasing after him before he was ready to talk, so I waited for him to come back, not realizing that he was waiting for me to apologize. Jason was…" He closed his eyes. "I took Jason in, partly—mostly—because, after Dick left, I felt… alone. I'd grown used to facing the night with a partner. When I let Jason into my world, I thought that he reminded me of Dick. In some ways, he did. He was a quick study, absolutely fearless, athletic, determined…"

"But…"

"But he really reminded me of me. Or, of a me that I could have been, had my circumstances been even slightly different. Alfred taught me to channel my anger and… and grief… into something productive. In Jason, it festered. I didn't see it then—probably because my own coping skills were more on the level of masking the symptoms."

"Clarify?" Knowlton asked.

Bruce nodded, noting in passing that Knowlton wasn't asking anywhere near as many leading questions as Cinar had. "I took my anger and pain and kept them tightly reined in during the daylight hours. At night, I loosened those reins, but never fully let go. Jason had the same anger, but his control was more tenuous. In costume…" Bruce frowned.

"I'm not trying to be disingenuous," he continued after a moment's pause, "but it seems to me that the best way to explain it touches on the reason that I—that any police academy candidate—needs to go through this testing procedure. If you're going to sanction an individual to use violent—at times, lethal—force, then you're going to do your best to make sure that the person in question doesn't abuse that sanction. I rarely had to worry about that with Dick. He could be hot-headed at times, and it occasionally made him reckless—but he knew that there were certain lines that he couldn't cross, no matter how angry he was or how… justifiable… it might be. Jason didn't have that knowledge. Or, perhaps, his code didn't align with mine. I don't know." Bruce closed his eyes. "When I realized that the problem went beyond… hotheadedness, I put him on inactive duty. I didn't know how to handle the situation. Alfred was trying to help, but I felt that we were both losing him. I knew he needed more. I was debating asking one of my colleagues in the Justice League whether they knew of someone who could be discreet if certain topics came up."

"Your vigilantism."

Bruce nodded. "And then," he continued, "things came to a head. Joker escaped and made his way to the Middle East. Somehow, he'd acquired a nuclear weapon and was intent on selling it to terrorists. I went after him—not realizing that Jason was also headed that way."

"On his own?"

"He'd gone for a walk in the neighborhood where he'd grown up. One of the neighbors recognized him and gave him a box of keepsakes that had been entrusted to her. He discovered that his mother might be alive and in that general area. He decided to go after her. I don't know whether he tried to talk to me and I was too preoccupied, or whether he thought I wouldn't want to help him, but he left without a word. I ran into him in Lebanon."

"If he had approached you, would you have helped him?"

Bruce leaned forward angrily. "Of course!"

"Even though it might have meant that you'd lose another partner?"

"Do you seriously…?" He caught himself. Knowlton had only just met him today. Knowlton _didn't_ know him well enough to realize how offensive that question was. "I'd adopted Jason on the assumption that he was an orphan. I'd never have tried to keep him from his biological parent, if he'd wanted to be with her."

"And if he hadn't wanted it? Suppose that he'd met her and she'd wanted very much to be a part of his life, but he'd wanted to stay with you?"

Bruce frowned. "In that situation… I don't know what I might have done. I think I would have pushed him to go with his mother, but for all the wrong reasons. If I had discovered in my teens that one of my parents had somehow survived the shooting and been living under an assumed name, and wanted me to come live with them, I wouldn't have thought twice. I would have jumped at the chance. And I think I would have projected that onto Jason, without consideration for other factors."

"I see," Knowlton said, making another notation. "And today?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "It still wouldn't really be his decision. It would be up to a court to decide—although they'd consider his wishes. But I'd like to think that I'd support his decision, whatever it was. Not," he pressed his lips together and blinked hard, "that this scenario would ever stray from the hypothetical, at this point."

Knowlton nodded. "Sometimes, it can be hard to know what the right course of action is—particularly when there isn't an actual playbook."

"If you're trying to draw a parallel between childrearing and vigilantism, it's not the same," Bruce pointed out. "Doing what I did each night, I may have written my own… playbook, but I followed the rules I'd set out for myself. With my sons, each required a different playbook and the rules didn't necessarily stay consistent."

"Do you appreciate routine?"

Bruce frowned. "I think it's fair to say that routine keeps things on track. If I know that as soon as I come back from patrol, I need to log my findings, it means that any vital information will be accessible in my files, as needed. However, while I do recognize the need for schedules, routines, and the like, there has to be a certain amount of flexibility built into the system or it becomes unnecessarily restrictive."

"Point taken," Knowlton smiled. "Now, during the No Man's Land, I know that just about everyone's, um, playbook got tossed out the window. How did you cope under those circumstances?"

Bruce thought back. "Well," he said, feeling his shoulders relax, "for the first three months, I wasn't actually in Gotham…"

* * *

"Sir, I have Mr. Fox for—"

Paxton bit back an expletive. "Keep taking messages, Mariette!"

There was a pause. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Paxton."

"What?" He couldn't believe this. "Now listen to me, Mariette," he said, rage propelling him halfway out of his leather-upholstered swivel chair. "I have had one hell of a weekend, a sleepless night, and I am not dealing with Lucius Fox today. Now tell him whatever you like: I'm with a client; I'm volunteering at charity carwash, hell, I don't care, I'm taking investors on a tour of one of our overseas plants. But I am not taking Fox's calls. Got it?"

His office door opened and Fox stepped inside. "We have to talk, Lester."

Paxton settled back into his chair with a glower, and tried to force a smile. "Why of course, Lucius. How can I be of assistance?" He busied himself with one of the reports on his desk.

Lucius reached across the desk and pushed the report down. "You can explain to me why I've been fielding calls from reporters all morning, asking me to comment on whether it's true that you hired an impersonator to discredit our president emeritus. You can tell me why a candid shot of you standing before a judge at a bail hearing is currently getting thousands of rechirps on Tweeter and nearly as many shares on Facespace. I haven't checked Topplr, but I'm fairly sure that there'll be plenty of reblogs there. Lester… what the hell is going on?"

Paxton blinked. "What?" he barked automatically. "That's—"

"I've also been getting calls from some of our shareholders, several of whom have pointedly reminded me that name change or not, this company is still _Wayne_ Enterprises, whether or not we stuck 'Patrick Morgan' in front of it. They've been demanding answers and I'd like a couple myself. Lester, again, what the hell is going on?"

Paxton matched Lucius glower for glower, but it was he who looked away first. "I'll handle it," he said slowly. "Give me a couple of hours and—"

"Actually," Lucius interrupted, "maybe you should take all the time you need. Away from the office. Things have been stressful lately. Maybe," he mused," you should just take it easy and concentrate on getting this situation resolved."

"Excuse me?"

Lucius's expression hardened again. "Go home, Lester. Take a rest. Concentrate on rectifying this matter. Because until I can go back to our shareholders and tell them that the photo has been taken completely out of context, I don't want you on the premises."

"Now just one moment," Paxton blustered. "You can't just—"

"I'm just stating a preference, Lester. Of course, I can't force you to leave." His voice hardened. "But I'm certainly willing to put the question to the shareholders, if you wish."

Paxton seemed to deflate. "That won't be necessary, Lucius. I'll get my things together and be out in an hour."

* * *

It took barely fifteen minutes for the judge to rescind the temporary restraining order. Bruce listened as Rae confirmed to the judge that they were prepared to drop the harassment suit (that he hadn't wanted to pursue in the first place, but which Rae had urged him to file anyway), provided that she leave them alone in future. He nodded as Rae added that they'd prefer not to pursue their own restraining order against Sharon Ryerson and would consider the matter closed, so long as they had Ryerson's assurance that she would cease any attempts to contact or harass him in future.

"My client is far from insensitive to Ms. Ryerson's circumstances," Rae was saying. "We'd like to move on, and we have no wish to make things more difficult. But this behavior needs to stop."

The judge glanced toward the table where Sharon and her lawyer sat. "Mr. Shaw?"

The lawyer rose to his feet. "My client is in agreement, Your Honor."

"I'd like to hear that from Ms. Ryerson herself." She fixed her stare on Sharon Ryerson. "On the record, Ms. Ryerson, do you assert that you will have no further contact whatsoever with Mr. Wayne, and that you will stop any kind of harassment directed at him?"

Ryerson looked like she was about to argue, but a quick frown and barely perceptible headshake from her lawyer stilled her. She nodded stonily. "I will, Your Honor."

The judge nodded. "Very well. The TRO against Mr. Wayne is rescinded as of this hearing. Ms. Green, have you prepared a written order?

Rae nodded back. "I have, Your Honor."

The judge smiled and automatically held out her hand for it. "Thank you, I'll sign it now and enter it into the record." Her gaze flickered from one table to the next. "Thank you all," she added. "It isn't very often that the parties are able to reach an amicable agreement in a case like this. Ms. Ryerson, you are to be commended for your decision." She smiled and turned to the bailiff.

"All right, you can call the next case on the docket..."

* * *

"You can't be serious, Kendricks," Paxton stood in his living room, fighting the urge to fling the phone through the picture window. If he did that, he'd never hear Kendricks' explanation and it had to be a doozy. "I'd always presumed that I could count on you to back me. Surely your corporate loyalty—"

"—lies with the president emeritus and acting CEO of my corporation," Kendrick cut him off smoothly. There was a faint self-righteous note in his tone. "I'm sorry, Lester. I can't support your course of action."

"So that's it," Paxton sneered. "You're afraid of a little bad press now. Well, this media brouhaha will blow over, and when it does, I'll remember just who my friends were who stood by me in my hour of need."

"That's… highly commendable, Lester," Kendricks coughed. "I'm sure Mr. Wayne will, too."

"You're throwing your lot in with him? That… That…"

"I believe the term you're looking for is 'majority shareholder'? Perhaps 'president emeritus'? 'Batman?' Because frankly, I'd rather count Batman among my friends than my enemies." His tone hardened. "That would apply to both past and present incarnations. Nothing personal, Lester. I'm sure you understand."

"How dare you! Why, I could—"

"Save it for the press conference. Goodbye, Lester. Stay safe." The phone went dead as Paxton started sputtering again.

How dared he? How dared he! A press conference? As if— All at once, Paxton began to smile. The best way to get a media furor to die down was to give them something even bigger to get their teeth into. He was smiling as he typed 'Gotham Herald' into 411-dot-com.

"Yes, may I have the city desk please? Yes, I believe I do have a possible story for you. Doubtless you're aware that it's been barely six months since Bruce Wayne was released from Arkham Asylum. The poor man spent two years in therapy before they released him, and well, Arkham _does_ have a reputation for releasing their patients somewhat… prematurely. What? Yes, I'm getting to the point. It seems that Mr. Wayne is now attempting to join the GCPD, and I don't know about you, but the idea of a recent Arkham inmate with a propensity for violence being legally sanctioned to carry a firearm fills me with no small amount of trepidation…"


	13. Chapter 12: Ashes and Roses and Time

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta. Special thanks to PJ for details on police procedures.

The list of police commissioners is taken directly from Wikipedia. Stuart Knowlton and Diane Goodrich are original characters.

"Chasing What's Already Gone" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter on her _Ashes and Roses_ album (Zoe, 2012).

_I stared back at myself  
Feeling as empty as I've ever felt  
But I keep on going and I hope I've learned  
More of what's right than what's wrong  
It's ashes and roses and time that burns_

—_Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Chasing What's Already Gone"_

**Chapter 12—Ashes and Roses and Time**

Dr. Stuart Knowlton walked into the commissioner's office with a tight smile on his face. Sawyer looked up expectantly. Most people wouldn't have spotted the almost imperceptible tapping of her left index finger against the blue stone of her class ring, but Knowlton's eyes missed nothing. Out of courtesy, he pretended not to notice.

"Well?" she asked.

Knowlton shrugged. "I can see why the preliminary assessment found him unfit. There are a lot of problematic issues in Wayne's background, but then, you knew that already."

Sawyer nodded unhappily. "I'd hoped that it wasn't as serious as it looked," she admitted. "But—"

Knowlton shook his head, but he was smiling. "I can't deny the facts, commissioner. But I _can_ take issue with the earlier conclusions. If Wayne were a fresh recruit, we wouldn't be having this conversation—because the question uppermost in my mind would be 'if he's like this now, what's he going to be like ten years down the road?' The thing is," his smile deepened, "he's _not_ a fresh recruit—not really. And for him, this is already more like fifteen years down the road. And I've had a lot of fifteen-years-plus veterans come through my office in considerably worse shape after experiencing maybe half of what he's seen to date." He paused for a moment, noting with satisfaction that Sawyer was no longer tapping her ring. "I'm passing him."

Sawyer nodded briskly, fighting the urge to grin. "Thank you, Stuart. If you brought your report with you, I'll need it to distribute to the panel."

For answer, Knowlton handed her the manila folder he'd been carrying under his arm. "I notice you said 'to the panel,' and not 'to the other panel members,'" he remarked.

The commissioner sighed. "I'm recusing myself from this one, Stu. I'm a bit too invested in the proceedings. If he passes this next hurdle, like the others, it's got to be because he's qualified and not because I want to give him a smoother path than he has the right to expect."

Knowlton nodded. "Fair enough, ma'am. Have a good evening."

Halfway out of the room, he turned back to face her. "By the way," he said lightly, "I did have several arguments marshalled against the idea, if you had been planning to sit on the panel. Much as I'm happy not to have to fight you, I can't help feeling just a bit…"

"Disappointed?" Sawyer asked.

"Cheated. Good night, Commissioner."

Maggie waited until the door closed behind him before she allowed herself a brief chuckle.

* * *

The next day, things weren't looking quite as rosy. It fell to Deputy Police Chief Diane Goodrich (retired) to deliver the news. "We voted," she said. "Final tally, four in favor, three opposed."

Maggie sighed. Under most circumstances, a majority vote carried the day, but not when it came to police admissions. "How soon can we convene a hearing, then?"

Diane tilted her head. "You're asking? I thought sitting behind the big desk meant you get to call the shots."

Maggie's lips twitched. "As I recall, Di, someone told me that my orders would go a lot farther if my people had the illusion of being part of the decision-making process." She took a deep breath. "Very well. The hearing will convene the day after tomorrow at nine o'clock, sharp. And Di, I'm making it closed-door, invitation only."

A steely eyebrow shot up. "That's... irregular."

"But not unprecedented," Maggie countered. "Wayne's made his fair share of enemies, many of whom are capable of concealing some fairly lethal devices that could get through our safeguards. I'm not exposing him to any unnecessary risk—nor our people, for that matter."

"Understood," Diane nodded. "We'll keep it quiet." She frowned. "You really want him on board, don't you?"

"He's the best. Or, at least, he used to be."

Diane grunted. "Retirement's not for everyone." She blew air out between her teeth. "I've served under the best and the worst. Loeb, Grogan, McKeever," she counted on her fingers, "Gordon, Vane, Gordon again, Pauling, Gordon," she stopped fighting her smile, "_Essen-_Gordon, Gordon _again_, Howe, Gordon yet again, Akins…" she sighed. "When Jim left for good, I felt like it was time for me too, but I didn't want to take the plunge until I knew the city was in good hands. With Akins… I wasn't sure. He was all right in the beginning, but there was something… I don't know. I thought I was still needed, even though I was beginning to feel my age. When you stepped up, it was time." She frowned. "You really care about this one, don't you?"

Maggie nodded. "I'm doing my best not to let it cloud my judgment, but, yes. I do. I like the idea of Batman working hand-in-hand with us. Every year, we lose a lot of good officers to natural attrition. We lose skills and general knowledge that we don't realize we've lost until we start reinventing the wheel. I don't mean book smarts—those are easy to teach. I'm talking about life experience, patterns, things it takes a lifetime to learn to recognize, and then the people who've lived that lifetime leave and their expertise goes with them. Batman has that missing knowledge and then some."

"But does he want to share it?"

"I think so. Or at least, I think he sees it as an acceptable cost for the chance to make a difference." She sighed. "Look, at the end of the day, I want him out on the streets, doing what he does best, and I don't want to have to put out an APB on him for probation violation when we're on the same side. I also don't want him out there if he can't or won't take direction. So…"

"So," Diane nodded. "All right. That's fair." She frowned.

"Getting back to your earlier comments," Diane continued, "you'll want to arrange for increased security for the hearing, I take it?"

Maggie nodded back. "Inside and out. I'll take care of that."

"Good." She raised two fingers to her temple. "I'll be seeing you… Commissioner."

After Goodrich left, Sawyer let out a long sigh. Then she reached for the telephone. She had to call Mr. Wayne to tell him the news.

* * *

"Helena wants to say goodnight," Selina said, leading her daughter into the study.

Bruce smiled and held up his index finger, asking for a minute. "So," he said into the telephone, "what does that involve? I see. Yes, I'll make myself available. Thank you, Commissioner." His voice took on a lighter note. "Yes, that is encouraging. Yes. Thank you." He hung up the phone and bent a bit lower in his chair, holding out his arms for Helena.

Helena hesitated for a moment before toddling forward, picking up speed with each step.

"That was Sawyer, I take it?" Selena asked, as Helena faceplanted on Bruce's shin.

Bruce nodded, smile fading. "I've passed the preliminaries," he said, "But the panel vote wasn't unanimous. So there'll be a hearing."

"Oh." Selina studied him carefully, trying to gauge his thoughts. "That's... bad?"

Bruce hesitated. "Not necessarily," he replied. "They hold hearings when there's even one dissenting vote on the panel. However, while it's convened, I'll need to be close to where the proceedings are taking place—in case they need to clarify any of my previous statements."

"Well, at least you'll get to explain," Selina said. "So… what, they'll meet and discuss things, and then call you in at the end if there's anything they're not sure of?"

"No. They'll meet and I'll be expected to sit outside the room where the hearing takes place. They may ask me to step inside at any time and for any reason."

Selina winced. "I had one teacher who would give us a pop quiz on Mondays. On Tuesday, she'd call us up to her desk, one by one and review it while we were standing there. She tried to talk softly, but if you sat in the front row, you got to hear a few things that weren't any of your business. I used to hate it."

Bruce nodded. "For all I know, everything will be straightforward and I'll be wasting several hours awaiting a summons that never comes. Or they might call me in every five minutes. I just… have no way to prepare for this beyond being there at the appointed time and being prepared to review everything that was in my application."

"In other words," Selina's lips twitched, "you're pretty much going to be like every other recruit. Hang in there, handsome. You're in the home stretch."

* * *

Renee Montoya knocked on the commissioner's door and walked in without waiting for an invitation. "I just had a call from the _Herald_," she snapped, "asking me…"

"…to confirm whether Bruce Wayne had been accepted to the police academy?" Sawyer shook her head. "Take a number. We've been fielding calls since about ten last night. Of course, we aren't confirming or denying anything at the moment," she said, "or at least we'd better not be—but this won't stay quiet forever."

"Would it be so terrible if they found out that we had Batman on the payroll?" Renee asked. "I mean, is this really something that needs to be hushed up?"

"The application process is nerve-wracking enough without the media breathing down everyone's neck," Sawyer said firmly. "Expediting Wayne's application has put most of the relevant staffers under a hell of a lot of extra pressure. Neither they nor he will appreciate being in the center ring of a media circus. Now, if his application is approved, I'll prepare a brief statement to present at a press conference. If it's denied, I don't really think it's anyone's business. Mr. Wayne's been keeping a low profile up until now—it's not as though he's been mugging for the society pages. At this point, unless he wants to take things public, I'd like to do him the courtesy of respecting his privacy—for as long as possible."

* * *

Cassandra Cain chewed nervously on her lower lip as she typed with one finger: j… e… r… r… m… Wait. She frowned. That wasn't right. The 'e' and the 'r' were next to each other on the keyboard. And in 'Jeremiah', sometimes the second 'e' got swallowed up when people said it out loud. And 'r' was so often a double letter, and… She glowered and tried to find the backspace key. When she didn't spot it at once, she closed the window and opened a new email session.

Again, she began: j… e… r… _e_… m… i… a… She stopped. "Jer-e-my-uh," she said aloud. She frowned. It didn't seem quite right, but when she pronounced it, she couldn't find a missing sound. "Jeremiah at… at…" she found the 'at' symbol and bit back a groan of frustration as the number 2 appeared in the email window. Rather than look for the backspace key, she closed the session and reopened it once more. Now, how did you get the signs on top of the numbers?

She needed to test it on something… ah! She clicked a familiar icon that looked a bit like a small notebook and a new window popped up. She was glad that Oracle had shown her how to save a file on her desktop, even if she couldn't remember the procedure now. _Shift_ with the '2'. Okay… jeremia ... She frowned. What was the rest of it? He'd told her. He'd written it down, but she couldn't make sense out of some of his letters. He'd said that it was easy to remember, because she probably used the search engine every time she went online… Oh! She remembered now. Triumphantly, she typed, jeremia ... She opened up a new tab and hit the homepage. That was it! Jeremia... at-sign... gigglemail... period... com. She attached the scan of her latest practice essay and typed, 'please tell how this is. Also where is back space key' she frowned. She needed another one too. She continued, 'and question mark.'

She hit "send" and smiled. Her smile faded a few seconds later when a message appeared in her inbox. "Barbara?" she opened voice chat. "What is… mailer demon?"

* * *

Maggie Sawyer arrived home at five-forty the next morning and, half-asleep turned on _Good Morning, Gotham: First News 5:30_. She was headed for the kitchen and a cup of herbal tea, when the voice coming over the television shocked her to full alertness in an instant.

"…_got 28 of our best and brightest killed three years ago. And now, the top brass wants to welcome him with open arms? I tell you, if I weren't so close to retirement, I'd quit today._"

"What the HELL?!" she spat. The voice was distorted, she realized furiously. No way to _prove _who it was… yet. Her eyes narrowed at the caption on the screen: GCPD officer agreed to comment on condition of anonymity. "Yeah, I just bet you did," she snarled.

She dialed the First Shift commander's line. "Sarge!" she barked. "_Yes_, I saw it. I want a list of every officer within five years of retirement on my desk by the time I come in this afternoon—and I'll probably be in early. Meanwhile, _nobody_ outside of the Press Information Office is authorized to speak with the media. Period. Not about Wayne, not about policy, not about the weather. Am I being clear? Good. I should be in before you finish your shift." She sighed. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

She hung up the phone. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it! And Sarge had been just as furious and appalled as she was, but she'd still come down on him like it was his fault. They'd probably never catch the guy, unless… unless… All at once, she began to smile. She checked her directory and called another number.

"Maury? Sorry to bother you at home. Listen… What? Yes, I saw it. That's why I'm calling. Do you, by any chance, have handy that telephone number I gave you at the start of the investigation?"

* * *

Unless he was travelling overseas and hopelessly jetlagged or being held captive in some arch-criminal's secret lair, Bruce had—even when he'd worn the cowl—usually been asleep at six in the morning. He was thus less than amused, when the phone rang at twenty-past. "You probably want to get an early start," Barbara's voice rang cheerfully in his ear. "Beat the crowds."

Bruce groaned. "Barbara," he snarled, "a long time ago, you informed me that you gave up your costume because you were tired of... I believe you said 'playing Wendy to my flock of lost boys'? May I suggest that you suppress your mother-hen instincts? At least until after sunrise?"

"Sorry, Bruce," Barbara said, the mirth in her voice belying her sincerity, "but you should get a move on. I wasn't kidding about the crowds. And today would be a very good day to make one of your more discreet entrances to GCPD."

"Barbara, if there's something you're trying to tell me, either say it directly or wait until I've had my coffee."

Barbara sighed. "Someone tipped off the media. There's a crowd of reporters camped around GCPD headquarters now, and it's going to get thicker the later it gets."

Bruce's knuckles whitened on the receiver. "Wonderful."

"I'm still trying to figure out how the leak happened. Sawyer told me she swore everyone she interviewed to secrecy, and I believe her. I don't think any of our people would blab in public, and maybe nobody else meant to either, but you know how it is: word gets around through the grapevine, someone goes home and talks to their spouse, who tells a close friend, who..."

"I'm familiar with the pattern." He sighed. "I suppose I should stop wasting time wondering how the breach occurred and just accept that it has, and move on from there."

"Yeah, finding the source of the leak is my worry," Barbara agreed.

"You don't have to do that," Bruce said sharply.

"Actually, I do. Commissioner's orders. Well, I mean, her exact words were 'I want to know how it happened and who's responsible, and I realize that you have accesses to resources and individuals that I don't. Can you make this happen?'"

Bruce could almost see her shrug.

"I said 'yes.' So, I'm doing some poking around. I mean, unless you want me to pass it over to the League."

Bruce covered his eyes with his hand. "No." He glanced at the clock. The hearing was scheduled for nine o'clock sharp and he needed to be alert and ready to explain anything they might need him to. Today definitely called for a cold shower and a strong coffee... or several. "I'm getting up."

"Good. Oh, and Bruce? Don't overdo the coffee. You don't want them to think you're jittery over this whole thing. Dick swears by apples and peppermint tea as pick-me-ups."

_Yes, Wendy._ "I appreciate your concern."

* * *

If he'd had the costume, it wouldn't have been difficult. Hell, if he'd thought he could get away with swinging into Sawyer's office on a Bat-line, he would have. But then, he was supposed to proving that he could play by their rules, take their orders, jump through their hoops. He snarled and adjusted the wig of sandy brown curls over his own hair and studied the effect. He shook his head. He wasn't about to start dying his eyebrows. If he kept his cap down until he was inside, he should be fine. He unscrewed the jar of adhesive and set to work on the moustache.

"What are you doing?"

Selina stood in the doorway, a peach silk bathrobe hanging open over a turquoise nightgown of the same fabric.

Bruce sighed. "Barbara called—"

"Oh, I was wondering—"

Bruce filled her in tersely. "It's winter. With a cap hiding my face, a long coat, and a different walk, I should be able to slip through undetected.

"_Or,_ you could give them an interview. Let 'em know you're back and ready to take on the world."

Bruce smiled. "Tempting," he lied, "but not today. I have enough to worry about without the media."

Selina shrugged. "You could say that if you can deal with the media first thing in the morning, the panel should be a breeze."

Bruce shook his head. "The panel won't be a breeze and I'm not putting myself through any more torture than I have to today.

"Mommy! Daddy!" Small feet padded softly down the hall carpet. Either Selina hadn't stretched the safety gate across Helena's bedroom door last night, or his daughter had already figured out how to neutralize it. No point commenting, unless he wanted another crack about how some things ran in the family.

He sighed tolerantly. Helena appeared to be an early riser. Clearly, some things couldn't be accounted for by heredity or environment. He bent down with a smile. "Good morning, Helena."

Helena bolted behind her mother.

Bruce blinked. "Helena?"

The little girl frowned. "Daddy?" She reached a tentative hand toward his face.

Bruce held still. "It's okay, Helena," he said, realizing what the problem was. Then, carefully, he tugged at the wig. "It's still me."

All at once, Helena broke into a broad smile. She took two purposeful steps forward. Then, with a knowing laugh, she gathered two handfuls of sandy curls… and yanked.

Selena laughed. Bruce sighed. "I have others," he murmured. "But… maybe I should wait until after breakfast to put one on."

"Good idea. I was thinking of whipping up a batch of pancakes. Sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful," Bruce admitted, "but according to Barbara, I shouldn't waste any time getting down there." He sighed again. "I'm going to have to microwave a frozen muffin, instead."

Selina nodded. As she hefted Helena up and headed for the stairs, she called over her shoulder, "Just remember to take it out of the foil, first!"

* * *

Sawyer hadn't exaggerated. The last time Bruce had seen this many members of the media in one place had been outside of Tim's high school at the beginning of the mob war. Come to think of it, a lot of the same faces from that day were there now. As he approached the steps, he took a moment to scan the crowd; it would have looked more suspicious to just walk right on past a crowd of reporters without batting an eye.

There were a few new people, but nobody he recognized from any of the national news shows. He'd rarely participated in press conferences as a member of the Justice League, but he'd still watched the footage. He hadn't expected that his story would be newsworthy enough to attract reporters from another county, and it appeared that he'd been right on that score.

He forced his face to remain blank as he made momentary eye contact with Summer Gleason. They'd had some good times together, and under other circumstances, he might not have minded catching up—if he could have been sure that their casual conversations wouldn't end up in some six-part exposé.

"What's going on?" he asked, affecting a South Boston accent. He glanced at the cameras. "You guys making a movie or something?"

One of the reporters looked him up and down and then, deliberately turned away. Bruce shrugged and continued inside.

Summer hadn't recognized him either. He knew that it would have been awkward if she had, but he still felt a momentary pang. When he'd first gotten out of Arkham, he'd relied on Caller ID and voicemail to screen his calls. He'd been prepared when the media had tried to contact him for a piece on "Life in Arkham" or "Beyond the Cowl." He'd never responded to the inquiries, and, as his story had fallen from the headlines, the calls had dwindled.

Summer had mailed him a card. Perfumed, with a pressed alstroemeria lily inside. On their last date, she'd worn the blossoms as part of her wrist corsage. The message hadn't been anything special—just something along the lines of 'Welcome back. Let's get together.' At the time, he'd considered calling her, but changed his mind at the last minute, unsure whether she was trying a sneakier way of gaining access to him for a story. Still, he'd appreciated the gesture.

"Can I help you?" A uniformed officer observed him, his face carefully blank.

Jerked out of his reverie, Bruce immediately remembered where he was. "I was told to report to room 125 at nine."

"It's only ten past eight," the officer remarked. "You're early."

Bruce nodded. "I wanted to avoid the crowd outside."

The officer shrugged and waved toward the front counter several yards ahead. "Give your name at the desk, grab a seat on the wall, and wait until someone comes out for you."

Bruce nodded again. He should probably lose the disguise before he did that. "Mind if I use the men's room?" he asked.

The officer shrugged again. "You've got time. Turn around. It's the door on your left." He spun on his heel and headed toward the counter he'd pointed out a moment ago.

Bruce watched him go. Then he went to remove his wig and beard.

Two hours later, he was seated outside room 125 on a hard wooden bench, trying to read the morning paper. There were two uniformed officers standing on either side of the door, and others positioned at intervals in the corridor.

The door opened and another blueshirt looked out. "Mr. Wayne? Could you step inside for a moment?"

Bruce folded the newspaper, left it on the bench, and followed the officer into the room.

Ten minutes later, Bruce re-emerged into the corridor and rested one hand on the back of the long wooden bench for a moment.

"How's it going?" a low voice asked him, as he took his seat once more.

Bruce looked up. "Barry?"

Detective Allen smiled. "I guess they figured it made sense to put me on security detail—seeing as I don't really know the city that well anymore. This is the first time I've really been back since the 'quake." He frowned. "What happened to the Mick's in Old Gotham?"

"It's still there," Bruce replied. "But they moved it three blocks west to the Old Dutch district."

"Ah."

Bruce was silent for a few moments. Then, "I thought you were here researching some crime lead."

"I am," Barry nodded. "I've spent the last few days going through the files for data that isn't online yet, but you know how that gets after the first few hours. You want to start skimming, only that's when you miss things, and I don't know about you, but when I take things too fast, I don't remember what I read anyway. So, this morning, when they asked if I could help out here, I figured a change of scene might do me good—and save them having to assign another officer who could be put to better use elsewhere."

Bruce grunted.

"Seriously," Barry said, "how _are_ you doing?"

Bruce looked directly into Barry's eyes. "How do you think?"

"Well, you look like you'd rather be swinging across Midtown right now."

Bruce sighed. "You always were a decent detective. Or is it just that obvious?"

"Both."

Bruce's lips twitched.

"There's an alcove at the end of the hall with some vending machines and a microwave. You want anything? Sandwich? Cup of coffee? Ramen soup?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not hungry. And I don't need anyone fussing over me either." A quick smile ghosted across his face. "Thanks, though."

"You know you're going to be okay, right?"

"I—"

The door opened. "Mr. Wayne? Would you step inside, please?"

Bruce rose to his feet with a sigh. "Good talking with you, Barry."

* * *

"I was a bit surprised when you called," the young man admitted when the front door opened.

Les Paxton stepped aside to allow his visitor inside. "I do appreciate your coming by," he smiled. "The thing about setbacks is that it gives a man a chance to know who his friends are."

Derek Powers smiled. "I understand. I hope you had no doubts about _my _loyalty in all this."

Paxton looked away. "I had no doubts about _anyone's. _Foolish, I can see that now. No matter. You're planning to attend the gala, aren't you?"

Derek blinked. "I don't know how I could avoid it, between my work for the Foundation and my position with PMWE. I RSVP'd same day."

"Excellent," Paxton said with a fatherly smile. "I want you there."

"Mr. Paxton?"

"Call me 'Les,' Derek," he chuckled. "We've known each other long enough not to stand on formality." His chuckle quickly turned to a slight cough. "Circumstances being as they are, I'm afraid my own attendance will draw too much of the spotlight in my direction, when it needs to be pointed elsewhere. You've already proven yourself to have a good pair of eyes and ears. I want you to employ those at the gala." He frowned. "Keep a close watch on Wayne. Without being too obvious, I want to know how he looks, how he acts, who he talks to, what he talks about… But don't let him suspect that you're watching him. He's planning something, Derek, and I want to know what it is."

Derek smiled. "You can count on me… Les."

* * *

"Mr. Wayne, Councillor Riba has voiced a concern that we'd like to you address."

Bruce inclined his head politely toward Goodrich and then turned in Oliver Riba's direction. The councillor for Tricorner Island cleared his throat. "Mr. Wayne, you've never made any secret of your feelings about guns. How can you reconcile your distaste for firearms with the fact that, should your application be approved, you'll be expected to carry one in the line of duty?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "I dislike guns, Councillor. You're correct on that one. I think it's fair to say that in every occupation, there are likely to be a few tasks that a person dislikes. I'm not overjoyed at the idea of carrying a gun, much less using one, but I do recognize that there are times when it might be necessary." _Don't ask me for examples._

"Have you ever carried one before?"

_From the trophy room to the practice area and back. _"Not outside the manor. My grandfather was something of a collector, and my father after him."

Riba frowned. "And…?"

He steeled himself. He'd known that this question might come up. He'd prepared an answer in his head. Now that the moment had come, though, the words weren't as ready as he would have preferred. "After my parents were murdered, I didn't want to go near a firearm. When I came upon the trophy case, I was horrified. Or," he admitted, "perhaps 'terrified' would be more accurate. My first impulse was to destroy them. My second was to avoid the room."

"How old were you?"

"Eight." He straightened his posture. "When I was thirteen, I was walking past the room. The door was open and Alfred was unlocking the case. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me that he oiled them every few months. I watched him do the first. He started talking about basic gun safety and maintenance, even going so far as to show me the procedure. After that, I still didn't _like_ firearms, but I didn't fear them either.

"Did you ever fire one?"

"Rarely. As I said, I don't care for guns, but if necessary, I'll do what I need to."

"Did you ever use a gun as Batman?"

"Not with live ammunition. Tranquilizer darts, and those rarely."

"Would you? If we approve your application?"

Bruce frowned. "At this point, the question's moot. I'm not permitted to wear the costume at this time. As for down the road, I… can envision a scenario where I would need to change into costume while I had a firearm on my person. If there was no secure place to store it, then yes, I would keep it with me. However, I doubt that I would use it. With respect, I've been Batman for nearly two decades and not needed a gun. I'd suspect that, even if I were carrying one in costume, my first instinct would be to reach for a batarang over a revolver."

"Do you ever think that a gun is the answer?"

Bruce's eyebrows drew closer together. "I don't think that anything is _the_ answer. I would say that in a case of self-defense, a gun could be _an_ answer, but there are always options. The question is how many of those options can be perceived in field conditions."

Riba nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I've nothing further at this time."

Deputy Chief Goodrich smiled. "Don't go too far, Mr. Wayne. We may need you again."

Bruce ducked his head once and spun on his heel. Once he was safely outside in the corridor, he sagged against the wall and employed a basic relaxation technique. Then he returned to the bench and picked up his paper. When he turned the page, he noted, to his chagrin, that the ink had rubbed off on his sweaty palms.

* * *

Over the next three hours, they called him in another six times. When he emerged the fourth time, he discovered a SunDollars bag and a sealed Styrofoam cup with the same logo under his newspaper. The bag contained a chicken salad sandwich, three creams and three sugars, and a yellow post-it note with a jagged lightning bolt drawn in black ink. There was no other message. He looked around in irritation, ready to give Barry a piece of his mind, but there was a different officer on security detail now.

He'd almost finished half the sandwich before the panel ordered him inside for the fifth time.

* * *

Maggie Sawyer could have gone home hours ago, but illogically, she felt that she should be in the building when the panel reached its decision. It made no sense; they could call her at home just as easily as they could tell her in person, and probably even moreso. Still, she waited.

Finally, when the bright face of the Cathedral Square Clock—visible through her window, even from twelve blocks away—showed a quarter to nine, she heard rubber-soled boots striding purposefully toward her door.

A moment later, there was a knock, and Diane Goodrich stepped inside, her face unreadable. "Well, Mags," she announced quietly, "verdict's in."


	14. Chapter 13: From the Inside Out

_...People do it every day  
Promise themselves they're gonna change  
I've been there, but I'm changin' from the inside out..._

And as the cold wind blows across the graveyard  
I think I hear the voice of my old friend whisper in my ear

I'm gonna stop lookin' back and start movin' on  
Learn how to face my fears

—_Brad Crisler, James LeBlanc, "When the Sand Runs Out"_

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta.

A/N: Thanks to Elle Weiss for helping me out with penalties for drug possession in the 1980s. The "Weiss Laws" referenced in this chapter—while fictional—are modeled on the real-life Rockefeller Laws and named in Elle's honor. Thanks to PJ for help with officer training.

"When the Sand Runs Out" written by Brad Crisler and James LeBlanc. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their_ Feels Like Today_ album (Lyric Street, 2004)

**Chapter 13—From the Inside Out**

"Your blabbermouth is Sergeant Charles Hawking." Oracle spoke confidently into the voice scrambler. "From what I can see, he's currently assigned to permits."

"For the last 27 years," Sawyer replied. "But I suppose you found that out, too."

"Yes. After he was caught falsifying a report."

Sawyer fought down her irritation. After all, she'd told this person to find the culprit. She'd had no reason to assume that this "JLA Dispatcher" wouldn't conduct a more thorough investigation. "Do you have a motive?"

Oracle caught the testiness in the commissioner's tone. "Don't you?"

Sawyer let out a breath. "Don't."

"Sorry?"

"Don't," she repeated. "I'm not some rookie you need to coax along. I asked for your help, you agreed to provide it. I'm asking you for your insights. I want you to provide those as well."

This was pushing. "Not meaning to be rude, Commissioner," Oracle replied, "but all you asked me for was a name."

"You didn't stop your investigation with just a name," Sawyer countered. "I brought you on board because I thought you could get the job done. If you have a reason to keep this from me, explain. But if this is just because you like playing your cards close, that doesn't cut it. I needed your help for an internal matter. I won't deny it. But I do want to know how you arrived at those results. Because unless you also are planning to pursue deputy status, like it or not, you're going to have a bit of competition. My people need to know how to find out what you can find out. And when I go to IA with your findings, I'm going to need something better than 'an anonymous tip said it was Hawking'. Now let's have your information."

There was a long pause. "For the record, Commissioner, I applied to the police academy years ago. I didn't meet the minimum height requirement. And even if you somehow were able to relax that standard, you'd find that there were other considerations. Trust me. You don't want me at the Academy."

Sawyer allowed a smile to creep into her voice. "Are you done posturing?"

"P-P-Posturi…!?"

Even through the voder, Sawyer could hear the indignation. She chuckled. "So, you're not a computer. Unless AIs are programmed to sputter, that is. I didn't think you were, but I had to test it. Do you have a name, beyond 'Justice League Dispatcher'?"

This time, the pause was longer. "Oracle."

"Oracle," Sawyer nodded with satisfaction. "Nice to have an alias to go with the fake voice. Very well. I won't pry further. But I do need to know your findings. Unless you have a reason for keeping them to yourself beyond 'it wasn't part of our original agreement'. _Is _there a good reason for you not to divulge your information?"

"No." There was a sigh. "I… guess not. Okay. I looked into the circumstances that led to Hawking having been assigned to permits, all those years ago. It looks like someone set him up to take a fall."

Sawyer frowned. "Go on."

"As I understand it, he filed a report stating that a suspect was arrested with 250 grams of cocaine on his person, when it was actually 25. Under the Weiss Laws, possession of up to 50 grams drew an automatic sentence of 10 years, but 50 grams or more meant 25 years to life."

Sawyer nodded as she listened. The Weiss Laws had meant harsher drug penalties, but had resulted in more convicted criminals than there were prisons to hold them. The laws had been struck down nearly a decade earlier—replaced by fines and shorter sentences. She still didn't know whether that was a good thing.

"The thing is," Oracle continued, "when I got a look at a scan of the report, the 'zero' in 250 is about a quarter of a millimeter lower than the rest of the type on the line. Today," Oracle continued, "I'd never be able to detect something of that nature. Not when you draw up your reports on a computer. But this is going back over 25 years, when mostly everything was still done on typewriters. Someone took that report, put the page back in the machine, and added an extra zero."

"You know," Sawyer said slowly, "it could also be that Hawkins typed up that report properly, and then changed his mind, put the sheet back in, and made that alteration himself."

"Knowing he'd have to account for 225 grams gone missing from the evidence locker that were never there in the first place? Besides, that zero looks different from the others in the report. Typewriters may not be as unique as fingerprints, but if you do a comparison, I think you'll find that the alteration was done on another machine." She paused. "It's a pity that the guy who reported the theft, Michael Dell, died during the Clench epidemic. It might have been worth talking to him."

"You can't prove that Dell had anything to do with it," Sawyer shot back automatically, even as she admitted to herself that if Hawking were innocent, odds are that he would have been set up by someone close to him and likely involved in the same case, _like his partner_.

"No," Oracle agreed. "I can't. Not conclusively. But you might want to check some of Dell's own reports. I think you'll find that the zero-keystroke appears the same on those as it does in the altered document. So, unless your culprit meant to frame Dell for framing Hawking—and I'm not saying it's not possible, but it's a lot more convoluted than it needs to be..." The electronic voice trailed off for a moment. "Plus, if the goal was also to implicate Dell, it's interesting that it doesn't look like anyone made another attempt when this one failed. At any rate," Oracle continued, "it's been my experience that most people who try to be that clever end by tripping themselves up."

"Mine as well," Sawyer agreed. She let out a long sigh. "If you're right, if Hawking's been stuck in permits for over 25 years for a mistake he never made, that kind of thing tends to make a person bitter." Her voice hardened. "I appreciate your input. I presume you have hard evidence to back up what you've told me?"

"Yes."

"Would you care to email it, or would you prefer delivering the hardcopy to me?"

This time, the electronic voice sounded amused. "You _have_ the hardcopy in your archives, commissioner. My report was sent to your personal email three minutes ago."

"What?" Sawyer demanded. "I never gave you…"

The connection terminated abruptly. Commissioner Sawyer gave her phone a murderous look. She hated it when people hung up on her in mid-sentence.

* * *

"I was in the neighborhood," Dick grinned, when Bruce opened the front door. "Thought I'd pop in."

Bruce's lips twitched. "You're late. Tim and Cassandra have been here since four."

"They didn't have to fight rush hour traffic all the way from downtown."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you were in the neighborhood."

"Hey. It's a big neighborhood."

"Yes," Bruce said dryly. "Particularly if you define 'neighborhood' as everything between Blackgate and Brentwood." He moved aside to allow Dick to come in.

"Well, it feels like a much shorter distance when I'm taking the rooftop route instead of trying to drive through." His expression turned serious as he stepped into the foyer. "How are you holding up?"

Bruce sighed. "It's the waiting. I didn't want this in the first place. The results shouldn't matter to me one way or the other. If I passed, I'll be spending the next few months jumping through hoops. If I didn't, then after the hearing next summer, I'll be dealing with other… complications."

"That's true."

"And it's not even as if I didn't have those same complications when I started. I knew that if I were found out, I'd be arrested on the spot." He sighed. "I didn't want that, but I knew it was a factor. Then I earned Jim's confidence, and when he became police commissioner, I put that concern aside. I got… used to that acceptance. Until Akins." He stopped. "And I admit that there were many things that I could have done that might have cemented a working relationship with him. When Jim retired, I didn't think anyone could replace him. I… was so… caught up in comparing Akins to Jim and watching whether he could… could…" Bruce looked away. "…could prove that he was suited to the job, that it didn't occur to me that, perhaps, Akins had similar doubts about working with a known vigilante. The same sort of questions I'd tolerated from Jim, I resented from Akins. I resented having to explain myself to him, and yet I expected him to follow my advice without question."

"Hey." Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder as they started out of the foyer and toward the study. Bruce let out another sigh.

"Bottom line?" Bruce continued. "What I was doing out there was never legal, but with the GCPD's tacit approval, I could overlook that. I lost that approval under Akins. If I'm to have any hope of regaining it under Sawyer, I need to do this. With or without it," he admitted, "I intend to be back in the costume this summer. I'd prefer to do so without courting arrest. Particularly since they will have a fairly good idea of where to start looking for me. And who to question."

"If it comes to that," Dick said, "I think we can deal."

"That's not the point," Bruce countered. "I don't like running away, but I won't countenance you, or anyone else, dealing with the fallout from my actions." He stopped and turned to face Dick. "I… might have fought my placement at Arkham harder, had I understood what those two years would cost _you_."

For the barest instant, Dick flinched. When he spoke though, his voice was clear and confident. "You probably wouldn't have understood it, or said anything, if not for the perspective you gained in those two years… not to mention the last seven months," Dick replied. "Look. The past happened. We know that. But there's no point rehashing something we can't change. And…" he sighed, "it's so easy to say that if we had it to do over, we'd do it differently, only, if we had it to do over, without knowing the results of our choices, how could we help but make the same ones?"

"I…"

"Bruce. Let's say you could go back in time to the start of the mob war and tell yourself that if you made that appeal to the GCPD to follow you, it would be a disaster, a lot of people would die, and you'd end up in Arkham. Would you listen? Or would you assume that it was some trick—maybe one of Hugo Strange's illusions—and plow right on through? Or maybe acknowledge the risks but decide that every other contingency plan you had carried worse risks, and this was still the best chance?"

"I don't know," Bruce admitted.

"That's okay," Dick smiled. "I don't either. I just know that there's no point in belaboring it—because you _can't_ go back, anyway. So you may as well go on."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Give me a hand in the kitchen?" he asked. "I'd prefer not to sit waiting for a call which might not even come today, while everyone else is waiting and trying not to let me see that they're checking if I'm all right. If he were here, Alfred would probably be bringing out tea, around now. At least that's one item I've never had difficulty preparing."

Dick grinned. "You got it."

* * *

Bruce was just rinsing the teapot with boiling water when the phone rang.

Ten minutes later, Bruce and Dick entered the study with identical serious expressions on their faces. The others looked up expectantly.

Bruce looked around the room, panning from Jim to Selina to Cass to Tim, his expression unreadable.

Cass shifted forward, concern plain on her features. "Well?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "That was Sawyer," he confirmed. "I'm to report to the police academy for an assessment on Monday."

Cass frowned. "Sorry. You're… harder to read. Is that… good?"

Bruce's smiled then. "Yes," he admitted. "Yes, I think it is."

Then Dick threw an arm across his shoulders and the others clustered around him and, for once, he didn't feel crowded.

* * *

Sawyer was going over the section heads' reports when her direct line buzzed. She stopped trying to decipher Captain Gleason's typos and picked up. "Yes?"

"Glad to find you at your desk, Commissioner," the electronic voice responded.

Sawyer set the report down. "This conversation ends when we both say 'goodbye'. Are we clear?"

There was a pause. "Perfectly."

"What do you have for me, Oracle?"

"Your Sergeant Hawkins spoke to the media," Oracle said, "but he didn't tip them off. That would have been Lester Paxton."

Sawyer's jaw set. "How do you know this?"

"A bit of inference, a bit of deduction, and a bit of hard proof furnished by methods that won't be admissible in court."

The police commissioner sighed. "We haven't got the time or inclination to pursue that route in any case," she admitted. "Not that it matters. Paxton's in enough hot water already. Of course, this isn't _only_ a police matter, and we're not the only party involved that has options."

"I can pretty much assure you that neither Wayne nor PMWE will be interested in filing charges either. Wayne has enough on his mind. PMWE is already trying to downplay Paxton's activities. They won't want to call attention to any new mischief. I'm just calling because I thought you might want the full details before you jumped to conclusions about Hawking."

"Much appreciated." Her tone hardened. "I know what you people have done for this city in the past and I applaud most of it. There's something I need you to keep in mind, though—for Mr. Wayne's sake if nothing else. "

"I'm listening."

"I know his… team… is extremely results-oriented. That's commendable, but it also means that they cut corners to get those results, meaning that the prosecution's case isn't always as strong as it should be. Since his team isn't listening to this conversation right now—at least, I would _hope_ not—I'm going to have to dump everything on your shoulders, Oracle." She took a deep breath. "If you and they are out there to make our lives easier, then _make_ them easier. Tell us when you believe we need to obtain a search warrant. Let us know where the evidence is before you have your people remove it from the crime scene to show us. Help us make the charges stick so these creeps don't get back on the street so quickly."

"Commissioner, I…"

"Look," she said wearily, "I'm not talking about finding Scarecrow's latest chemistry lab. Of course the important thing there is to shut it down before he strikes again. Wayne will need to know the laws about illegal search and seizure and evidence tampering. I'd suggest you all help him review." She paused. "I'd hate for him to enlist your help in cracking a case, only to have the perp walk because the ironclad evidence was deemed inadmissible and the full confession was obtained under duress."

There was a pause on the other end. "Understood, Commissioner. Goodbye."

The connection terminated.

Sawyer looked at the receiver in her hand. "I said '_both_,' she muttered with feigned irritation.

* * *

Dick and Tim had left to patrol and Selina was fixing dinner for Helena before heading out for a prowl of her own when Bruce walked into the cave to find Cass sitting at the computer, staring fixedly at the screen.

"Cass?"

She flinched, startled. "Sorry. Didn't hear," she said with embarrassment.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked.

"Sorry," she repeated. "I… wanted to do one more essay."

"Essay?" Bruce blinked. "For your GED?"

Cass nodded. "I meet Dr. Arkham tomorrow. He said… if I send tonight he can look. So… tomorrow… I don't have to wait for him to read. He'll already have... my... mistakes." She looked down. "Sorry. Came down to train. But the computer was on and I thought… I type so slow. I thought… maybe if I tried now… harder to write late at night and if I waited for home…"

Bruce waved aside her explanations with a frown. "I didn't know that Dr. Arkham was helping you to prepare. I thought that Tim and Barbara were—"

"Yes," Cass nodded again. "They help. But… they have other things. Dr. Arkham was… sick for so long. From the fire."

"I remember," Bruce said slowly. "I had no idea that you were meeting with him."

"You know I go to Saint Swithins. He was there. We… we talked. He saw me learn and wanted to… help. Helping me helps him. I think." Her face fell. "You… don't like him. I can stop."

Bruce shook his head. "I knew he'd been injured. I'd asked Dick to look in on him—which wasn't fair to him, with everything else he's taken on. He said he would, but I didn't push it. And heaven knows that despite my concern for Arkham's situation, I never went to visit him myself. It would have been awkward for both of us."

Cass frowned. "Awk-awkward? Clumsy? I don't…"

Bruce sighed. "I don't actually dislike him… now. When I was incarcerated, it was a different story. Still… I find the idea of visiting him… unappealing. I'm not good at finding the right words for those situations under the best circumstances. I'm not sure that any benefit could be found in my sitting there, waiting for him to say something while he's expecting the same from me."

"Okay?" Cass ventured. "I… I still don't see…"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I'm trying to tell you that, regardless of my personal feelings for Jeremiah Arkham, I think it's a good thing that you're taking an interest. And if he's helping you, so much the better."

"Oh," Cass said with a surprised smile. "Okay." She hesitated.

"Was there something else?"

Cass looked down at her lap. "I… Nothing. Um… I mean… You already know… I mean… everyone says… I mean," she sighed. "I _know_ new… things are hard. For me… talking. Reading. Now… this. Hard. Frustrating. And… sometimes I want to stop. Go back to before. So… easy. Only… that's not me now. And… and even when I think maybe easier if that _was_ me… maybe I don't want easy. Or maybe easy isn't good. I don't know. But… for you? What you're doing. I…" She looked up. "Do you know what I… mean?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "At times," he admitted.

"How do you… deal?"

Bruce's lips twitched again. "When I came downstairs, I was planning to get the gloves and go a few rounds with the heavy bag," he gestured toward the exercise area.

"Oh. When I finish… this… maybe," she took a deep breath, "try… an opponent who fights back?"

That got her a genuine smile.

Halfway to the exercise area, he stopped and doubled back. "Cass," he said, "before you send off your essay, I could check it over for you. I mean, if you'd like," he added quickly.

Cass nodded. Bruce turned as if to go. "Batman!" It came out louder than she'd meant and she clapped a hand to her mouth as Bruce spun back.

"Yes?"

She took a deep breath, "if… things are… hard for you and you want to spar… okay to call me. I mean… if _you'd_ like." She took another breath. "Anytime."

Bruce nodded curtly, but his step was a bit lighter as he headed back to the training area.

* * *

Sawyer looked up at the knock on her door.

"You wanted to see me, Commish?" Hawking rumbled.

Sawyer nodded. "Come in, Hawk. Close the door behind you." She motioned to the chair before her desk. "Take a seat."

Hawking—or "Hawk," as he was generally known to his peers—obeyed with a resigned expression.

Sawyer leaned forward, her face stern. "You've been here long enough to know that all media inquiries are handled through the Press Information Office," she said levelly. "No exceptions. I'd like an explanation."

Hawk snorted. "No. You'd like a confession. Fine. Whatever. Someone's head's gotta roll. Might as well be mine. Hell, this time, I even did something to deserve it." He got up angrily. "Go ahead. Slap me all you want. What's it gonna be? A suspension? Knock yourself out. Oooh. With pay or without? Decisions, decisions. C'mon, Commish; what's it gonna be?"

The commissioner didn't bat an eyelash. "Actually, Sergeant Hawking, that depends on you."

The officer snorted. "Sure," he said. "Whatever. Guess you know how far you can take this without the union stepping up for me. Let's hear your worst."

"I found out what REALLY happened 27 years ago."

Hawking froze. "What?" he asked in disbelief.

"I'm sorry that you got a raw deal back then," she continued softly, "and that you were held back because of it." She waited for him to meet her eyes again. "That doesn't change the fact that you've violated protocol now by talking to the media." She paused, waiting once more until he nodded. "The thing is, if you hadn't, there's a good chance that I wouldn't have learned the truth about the earlier incident." She smiled. "Let's just say that the investigator I assigned to the case was _very_ thorough. So..."

She waited and watched as relief and apprehension warred on Hawk's face. He groped for the chair and clutched it to steady himself for a moment before he sat back down heavily. "So…?" he asked.

"So, I mean to announce in briefings that new evidence has come to light that pretty much erases that mark on your record. As far as your current indiscretion goes," she took a deep breath. "I'll leave that up to you. One month suspension with pay, followed by your immediate retirement," she paused, "_or_…"

"Or?"

"One month suspension without pay. Upon your return, you receive a promotion to lieutenant and you work for one more year to establish yourself in the new higher salary and then retire—if you want to. I know most officers do after 30 years, but if you were to choose to stay longer, I wouldn't force you out, so long as you meet performance metrics. It's your call, Hawk."

Hawking's knuckles whitened as his hands gripped the arms of his chair. "Can I," his voice was almost a whisper, "can I have some time to decide?"

"Take the month, Hawk. Let me know by then." He nodded.

"I'll be making the announcements tomorrow," Sawyer continued. "Did you want to be here when I do? We can delay the suspension a day."

Hawking shook his head slowly. "No. No, that won't be necessary. Commissioner."

"Very well, Hawk," Sawyer said crisply. "I believe we're done here. Oh. Your badge, Sergeant? And your gun?" Her tone was apologetic. "I'm afraid I'll need those."

Wordlessly, Hawk passed them over. Then, with a dazed look, he stumbled out of the office.

Sawyer watched him leave with a sad smile.

* * *

"Rough night?" Dick asked, as he came in the window to find Barbara resting her forehead in her hand, elbow on her workstation.

Barbara sighed. "I think I tipped my hand too much," she admitted.

"Sorry?"

Barbara sighed. "You know how Sawyer asked me to find out who told the media about Bruce?"

Dick nodded. "Yeah, and…?"

"And," Barbara said, "I'm so used to digging up stuff like this when someone needs it that I didn't realize until afterwards that she never really meant me."

Dick blinked. "You lost me."

Barbara sighed. "When you gave her my contact information, you didn't tell her everything I do, right? Just that I was the person to talk to if she needed to get in touch with the rest of the… Caped Community?"

"Right." It hit him. "Oh. So when she asked you to get to work on it, she expected you to…"

"…Pass it on to Cyborg or the League or…" She shook her head. "But when I reported back, I was all 'I have the data. I found it. You asked _me_,' etcetera, etcetera. I just… forgot that she didn't know what I can do."

Dick nodded. "Is it that big a deal? I mean, so she knows that you're good with a computer. Unless she tricked you into confessing to cybercrimes," he frowned. "She didn't, did she?"

Barbara shook her head. "No. And it's probably _not_ that big a deal. She just got upset that I wasn't revealing everything I'd uncovered right off the bat and I ended up spilling more than I'd bargained for. I guess," she frowned, "I know why this is getting to me. It's because Sawyer had some information I never meant to give her, because I got careless and..." she let out a long breath. "...and I got careless once and ended up in this chair," she said at a rush. "And even though, on one level, I know that it's not my fault—that if I hadn't opened the door, Daddy would have, or Joker would have broken it down or whatever, I spent so much time beating myself up for letting my guard down, that when it happens now, I just… go back there." She shook her head. "Maybe that's one of the reasons it took me so long to relax with you," she squeezed his hand. "To let my guard down enough to accept that there could be an _us_. I got careless once and I got hurt, and I got it into my head that if I was extra careful from then on, I'd be okay."

"Makes sense," Dick nodded.

"Yeah, but it's still a hell of a way to live." She sighed. "So, that's why I'm upset. Well, that and she pretty much strong-armed me into leveling with her." She gave Dick a pained smile. "If that's what Bruce has been getting from her, I _don't_ envy him."

Dick nodded. "She's tough, I'll give you that, but she's also fair, so long as you play straight with her. That being said," his grip tightened on her hand, "I'm more than willing to tell her _straight_ out that she needs to lose your number or answer to me."

Barbara shook her head, but she was smiling. "Nah. I think I was being a little mysterious, just for the hell of it." She took a deep breath. "She did also ask me to pass along some… er… strong advice about crime scene investigation and interrogation procedures…"

* * *

"And I'm still having doubts," Bruce finished.

Alex nodded. "It sounds like it. I know we've discussed your feelings about guns before. Have you thought that you might be building up that distaste to the point where it overshadows everything else?"

Bruce considered. "It came up at the hearing, you know," he said slowly. "It would have been so… _easy_ to say that I couldn't countenance pulling the trigger, would never be able to point a gun, much less fire one, not even in self-defense. And that would have put an end to this little experiment."

Alex steepled his fingers and nodded encouragingly.

"If I can't handle a firearm," Bruce continued, "I won't pass officer training. If I'd told them on the spot that don't intend to ever use a gun, then they wouldn't have accepted me."

"That's right," Alex nodded again. "So, why didn't you?"

Bruce sighed. "Because it's one thing to refuse to fire a gun because I loathe them. It's another to refuse because I'm afraid. And I _am_ afraid." He took a deep breath and looked up at Alex, trying to read his expression.

Alex leaned forward, his posture conveying interest but betraying nothing more.

"I'm afraid," Bruce repeated. "I'm afraid of killing an innocent. I'm afraid of having to take a life. I'm afraid of being manoeuvred into a position where my refusal to use a firearm will cost lives." He took another deep breath. "I've told myself that I'd rather die than use a gun. But do I have the right to condemn others to death because I won't?"

"Do you consider it murder to kill in self-defense?"

Bruce hesitated. "No. But," he thought for a moment "It shouldn't make a difference whether a life was lost because I pulled a trigger or because I hit them too hard or… or…" his voice trailed off. "It shouldn't matter," he whispered.

"But it does?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "It matters. And don't think I haven't stayed up nights wondering whether I'm partly responsible every time I save a life and they go on to kill again—and then wonder if I'd stopped them once and for all, whether the world would really be a worse place." He exhaled noisily. "And maybe I don't want to have that thought when I'm holding a weapon that would be so easy to use, if I had a moment of weakness."

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Then Alex spoke. "It would be my guess," he said slowly, "that your concern is one that's been voiced by most police watchdog groups at one time or another—and probably a big reason why the background checks and evaluations for each candidate are so invasive."

"Possibly," Bruce said, frowning.

"The testing," Alex continued, "is designed to weed out people who are likely to act in the manner that you've just described."

"But I told you," Bruce repeated, "I wasn't as forthright as I could have been."

"Right," Alex said. "You didn't tell them that you were reluctant to use a gun. Now I'm going to turn it around. Would you say that anything you might have said, either to the panel, to the psychiatrist who evaluated you, or to the backgrounder, in any way conveyed an _eagerness _to do so?"

Bruce blinked. "No."

"Which means that they were probably aware of your feelings toward firearms," Alex continued. "I mean, when you were active as Batman, I don't recall that you ever let anyone think otherwise. I have one more question, and you don't actually need to answer it." He smiled and continued, "Because you have several times over the last year and a half. Would you prefer a partner who goes charging into the thick of danger, eager to—you'll excuse me—bust heads, or one who steps back, takes the time to properly assess the situation, and then act—forcefully and decisively, yes—but not impulsively." He paused, waiting for Bruce to meet his eyes. "As I said," he repeated, "you don't need to answer that. But I would like you to consider this: of the two partners I've described, if you _had_ to put a gun in the hands of one of them, which would it be?"

Bruce flinched.

"As to whether your taking this new direction is a mistake," Alex continued, "that's something only you can answer. In my opinion, if it _is _a mistake, then the error doesn't lie with the GCPD vetting procedures. It might be question of timing, or motivation—but not temperament."

Bruce nodded slowly as Alex's words penetrated.

"Have you discussed any of your concerns with your family members? Or with someone like Mr. Gordon?"

Bruce felt himself begin to relax. "Yes," he said, almost eagerly. "I have."

"And…"

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "It's helping. I think." He took a moment to reflect. "It is helping," he repeated with more assurance.

"Good."

* * *

On the drive home, Bruce couldn't stop thinking about the academy. He wasn't overly concerned about the physical training, and although he wasn't sure he remembered everything he'd studied about police procedures, he was fairly sure that with a bit of review over the weekend, it would come back to him.

The main issue was to remember what the correct procedure was—according to the book—rather than the tricks and shortcuts that he'd picked up over the years. He frowned. There had been a time when he'd been more careful to keep the evidence intact, to try to help the charges stick. Sometimes, it hadn't been possible. Sometimes, he'd done everything right—only to see the perp back on the street days later, thanks to a technicality or a plea bargain. Somewhere along the line, it had become less about keeping them off the street and more about punishment and intimidation—and he'd barely even noticed.

He thought back now, trying to pinpoint when the change had occurred. Certainly, by the time Akins had broken with him, he hadn't been concerned about going by the book. Just like years earlier, after Jason's death, he hadn't cared about procedures—he'd just wanted to hurt for a time. _Who did you want to hurt, Bruce?_ he asked himself. _Was it the perps or was it you?_ And the answer to that, of course, was, 'both'.

He sighed. Passing gun handling had been weighing on him so heavily that he'd been virtually ignoring the rest of the curriculum. That had to change. Today was Thursday. He had four days to master the material. It would have to do.

As he crossed the Robert F. Kane Memorial Bridge heading into Bristol, it occurred to him that there was one thing that he should have done weeks earlier. He needed to find out from Jim exactly what was involved in 'qualifying with a firearm'. His aim was decent enough by now, and he certainly knew enough to pass a written test on gun safety. Maybe it really wouldn't take much more than that to get over that particular hurdle.

* * *

Jim answered Bruce's knock almost immediately.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here, or if I'd find you at the manor," Bruce said, with some relief. "But come to think of it, you're usually back here at this time."

Jim nodded and moved aside to allow Bruce entry to the groundskeeper's cottage. "I guess I'm just a creature of habit," he said. "Martha and I usually talk for a bit at this hour."

Bruce blinked. Then his eye fell on the computer monitor on the desk, open to a Skrype session. "I'm sorry," he said. "I could come back—"

"Sit down," Jim commanded. "If you decided to come here in person, there's got to be something on your mind. Just let me sign off." He moved toward the desk.

Bruce sank onto the sofa. "You don't have a web-cam?"

"No, I don't," Jim said, in a tone that let Bruce know that he'd evidently had this conversation before. "I don't need anyone noticing if I got egg on my shirtsleeve or forgot to shave, and Martha doesn't need to feel like she can't sit at the computer without—in her words—fixing her hair, not that I can imagine how she'd need to." He chuckled. "When I told her that, she said she'd prefer leaving it to my imagination." He typed a short phrase into the chat window and turned off the monitor. "Now," he said, turning the chair around to face Bruce, "what can I do for you?"

Bruce hesitated. "I was wondering about the academy."

Jim nodded. "I thought that might be it."

"Actually, I'm wondering about the gun handling test."

"That's 'tests,' plural," Jim said, nodding once more, "and again, I'm not surprised. Okay. What did you want to know?"

Bruce took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out. "Everything," he said faintly. "What are they looking for?"

"You just answered the question," Jim shot back. "Everything." Seeing a flash of irritation in Bruce's eyes, he relented. "Okay. There's a written test on firearm safety. When I was in charge, it was 80 multiple choice questions. You needed to get 60 of them right to pass. Sawyer may have changed the criteria, so if you find yourself facing a hundred short answers, an essay, and a pass cutoff of 90, don't come crying to me later."

"Got it," Bruce nodded. "What else?"

"You'll need to prove that you're qualified with both a pistol and a shotgun—"

"Wh-what?" Bruce fought to stay calm. "I've been practicing with a pistol, but..." He'd rarely seen any officers who weren't on a SWAT team carrying shotguns. How could he have missed this? He knew how. He'd never been particularly interested in what sort of firearms training was given to GCPD officers. He'd simply observed the kinds of weapons they carried in the line of duty and noted that, in general, that meant pistols. Somehow, he'd got it in his head that shotguns were the purview of specialized divisions and not necessary for all officers.

"Do you _have_ a shotgun?" Jim asked. "It's been some time, but I can come back with you and give you some pointers."

Bruce gave a slight nod and took another breath. "What else?"

"The focus of the firearms training program is safety, accuracy, and speed—in that order. The goal is to get you to a point where you can perform quickly and efficiently, without compromising your safety. Basic firearms training is normally 90 hours to start with, but this is something you can't just pass and forget about." His eyes took on a blazing intensity. "There are mandatory five-hour refresher trainings every six months. As there should be," he added. "Considering that this is one area where mistakes can be lethal. We can't afford to make them. I'm not saying we don't," he admitted, "but we can't afford to."

Bruce nodded glumly.

"Another thing. The course isn't just about guns. It's also about tactical training, chemical agent training and something they like to call "practical demonstrations" of the effects of non-lethal takedowns like tasers and pepper spray. And yes," he smiled apologetically, "that does mean that they want to make sure you know firsthand what it feels like to be tasered or pepper-sprayed, before you try using either on someone else."

"Am I expected to shoot myself in the foot, too?" Bruce demanded.

"I'd say more than half the instructors are expecting you to," Jim retorted, "but it's not a course requirement."

Bruce sighed. "What else?"

"You'll need to score 84 percent or higher on the pistol qualification course and 80 percent or higher with a shotgun. There's an emphasis on tactical training—meaning simulated deadly force incidents. I think you're familiar with those gauntlets where life-sized cutouts pop up at you and you need to fire on the perps and avoid the civilians?"

His palms were sweating. "I thought... I've been using bulls-eyes. I..."

"There's a static range too," Jim nodded. "You'll need to score three consecutive passing grades with pistol and shotgun to qualify—but the tactical training starts before that." He frowned. "Are you okay?"

Bruce closed his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" Jim asked.

Bruce let out a long breath. "Commissioner Sawyer. I need to tell her... it's off." He bent forward in the chair until his elbows rested on his knees. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I just can't."


	15. Chapter 14: Good Enough

_Slow down that's right  
Give it all you got  
Yeah you got the right stuff  
Kick back let go  
Trust yourself you know  
Yeah what you got is good enough_

Hey don't give 'em what they think they want  
'Cause they don't have a clue…

—_Angelo Petraglia, Georgia Middleman, "Do What You Do."  
_

A/N: Police Ethics questions adapted from scr911 dot org (accessed February 14, 2013).

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta. "Do What You Do" lyrics written by Angelo Petraglia and Georgia Middleman. Recorded by Martina McBride on her _Emotion_ album (RCA Nashville, 1999).

**Chapter 14—Good Enough**

"Put the phone down, Bruce."

Although Jim's voice was quiet, Bruce did not miss the unmistakable note of command. And although Bruce didn't quite lower the phone, he did look up in perplexed irritation. "I can't do this," he repeated.

"I heard you the first time," Jim replied. "And I've heard you say it a few other times over these last few days."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm serious," he said. "There's just no way that I'll be able to pass gun handling on Monday. Which means that there's no point in bothering with this whole charade."

"You won't pass gun handling on Monday," Jim repeated softly. He regarded Bruce for a long moment. Then his face creased into a broad smile. "Well, thank G-d for that."

"Bruce gaped at him. "I… beg your pardon?"

Jim sat down in a nearby armchair. "Bruce, let me ask you a serious question. How would you feel about sitting in the passenger seat of a car when you know that your driver has never taken a car out in real conditions? Oh, they've memorized the material for the written test. They've done very well on the simulator games in the arcade. But they've never actually driven on a real road, with real traffic and… and bumper cars get them a bit twitchy."

Bruce shook his head. "It's not the same thing."

"No," Jim agreed. "It's worse. Look. There are some subjects in the curriculum that you're going to know better than the instructors. On those, I agree with you, one hundred percent. You shouldn't need to sit in a classroom and go over them again. In fact, you'll probably be bored to tears if you do. But Firearms Handling? Bruce… if there's one course you need the classroom hours for, this is it." He frowned. "You were planning on going from the testing directly into the field, weren't you?"

Bruce looked down. "Planning is too strong a word. But I was… hoping."

Jim sighed. "It might help if you think of the testing as a means of determining which courses you can get advance credit for. Because get this through your head now and accept it: you _are_ going to the Academy, and you _will_ have to take some courses. No two ways about it. And here's something else to keep in mind. There are plenty of new recruits who've never seen a gun up close, much less handled one. The instructors are used to that." He stood up and crossed over to the sofa where Bruce sat. "Granted, they're more used to new candidates being too gung-ho and excited over the whole thing; you're right to be tackling your reservations early. My point," he continued, resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder, "is that right now, passing or failing the tests isn't going to get you kicked out of the program. You passed the vetting. You're in. And either you're comfortable with the material now, or you will be by the time the program's over."

"Comfortable with a firearm…" Bruce said, closing his eyes. "You'll excuse me if that's not my greatest ambition."

Still keeping his hand on Bruce's shoulder, Jim sat down next to him. "Well," he rumbled, "how else are you going to work on your fear?"

"What?"

Jim waited for Bruce to look at him again. "How else," he repeated, "are you going to work on your fear? I've seen you work to just be able to load that Beretta, but you were ready to give up until circumstances forced your hand."

"Circumstances and a talk with Dick," Bruce muttered.

"And now, you're having a talk with me. That's not the point. The point is that you and I both know that fear is an insidious thing, and once you let it get a toehold, it tends to gets worse." Bruce started to speak. Jim kept going. "Look. You can either control your fear, or you can let it control you. Nobody... I repeat, _nobody_ expects you to beat this thing overnight. But you are not walking away. Not for that reason." Jim sighed. "Don't make me give you that clichéd old speech."

Bruce frowned. "Speech?"

"Yeah. That speech you hear in every other movie about facing your fears instead of running away from them. You don't really need me to tell it to you now; you've probably had to give it a few times in your career. Besides, I hate making speeches." That earned him a quick smile. "Do me one favor," he continued. "The last time you were ready to give up on this, you decided that you were going to wait until morning before you called Sawyer. Do the same thing now: sleep on it."

"Sleep?" Bruce asked wearily. "As you just pointed out, gun handling isn't the only thing I'm going to have to worry about on Monday. I've barely touched the other subjects."

"Ah," Jim nodded. "So you're back in the game?"

"I… don't know," Bruce admitted with another ghost of a smile, "but if there's a chance that I won't be making that phone call in the morning, I can't afford to waste tonight."

"Sleeping isn't a waste," Jim pointed out. "Of course," he continued in friendlier tone, "if you were planning on ordering pizza and tackling the books, I _guess_ I could help you out. Maybe highlight a few policies and procedures for you that I know for a fact fly in the face of how you're used to doing things."

"I can man—" He stopped. "Dick said you liked the Vegissimo from Luigi's?"

Jim chuckled. "My doctor likes it. He wants me to watch my cholesterol. I've given up sausage and pepperoni, but I'll take my chances with cheese. Still, don't let that stop you from ordering what you want. I doubt I can eat more than half a pie."

"Actually," Bruce considered, "let's start with the Vegissimo. I can always order something else if we run out."

"Better put coffee on, too."

"Barbara suggests—"

"I _know_ what Barbara suggests, but I can tell you right now that if you're hoping to fit in at the academy, there are two beverages of choice: beer and coffee. And since you don't drink beer…"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I'll make the coffee."

"I'll be at the house in an hour. Unless you wanted to set up here?"

Bruce considered. "Actually, working here might not be a bad idea," he said. "It's going below freezing tonight. If the path should ice over, I think I'd rather _I_ slipped on my way back to the manor, than you on your way back to the cottage."

"Nice to see you thinking cheerful thoughts for a change," Jim retorted. He waved Bruce off with a chuckle. "Go, go. Meanwhile, I'll get online and ask Barbara if she can point out any other resources."

* * *

High-pitched wails greeted Bruce on his arrival at the manor. Heart in his mouth, he raced to the kitchen. "Selina!? Is Helena…?" He stopped. Helena was lying across the kitchen threshold struggling fiercely as Selina held her down with one hand while unsuccessfully trying to pull a patent leather Mary Jane onto her tiny foot with the other.

"Bruce? I am so glad you're home. I need a little help here," Selina said over Helena's screams.

"NO! NOOOOO!" Helena choked out through a flood of angry tears.

"What happened?" Bruce asked, as Selina tossed him the shoe and used her now-free hand to further immobilize their daughter.

Selina sighed. "She knocked my glass off the table," she explained, jerking her head in the direction of the fragments. "I figured the first order of business was to get her shoes on in case I missed a sliver or two cleaning up. She had other ideas."

"I see." Bruce bent down to look at his daughter. Her face was red and streaked with tears. Her nose was running. When she saw him, her angry howls died down to furious sobs.

Bruce took a deep breath. "Hi, Helena."

A loud sniffle was his only reply.

"Um…" Bruce tried to keep his tone soothing. "Mommy said a glass broke."

Another sniffle. She looked exhausted.

"You know," he said, "if you step on the broken pieces in your socks it can hurt, right?" He nodded, smiling, encouraging her to imitate him.

Helena watched him. Cautiously, she nodded back.

"Atta girl. So, you know how we stop your feet from getting hurt?"

Helena frowned.

Bruce held up the Mary Jane with a smile. "We put on shoes!"

"**NOOOOOOOOO!**" All at once, Helena's limp, pliable form surged with renewed vigor. "NO SHOES! NO! NONONO!"

"Helena… _OW!_" He brought a hand up quickly to his nose. He'd had no idea that she could kick that hard. Nothing seemed broken, but it wasn't until he took his hand away and looked at it that he was reassured that nothing was bloody either.

"Bruce," Selena ventured, her hands still pinning their daughter to the floor, "did you actually think you could reason with a toddler?"

Bruce sighed. "Plan B." He reached for her foot. Helena kicked his hand away forcefully. Wincing, Bruce grasped her leg firmly in one hand. With the other, he jammed the shoe on. So far, so good. Unfortunately, he needed both hands to work the buckle and as soon as he released her leg, Helena seized her chance and delivered another kick. The shoe dropped off her foot and fell to the ground.

"Want to try this in costume?" Selina asked. "MeTube needs another hit."

"Don't even think it. Does she have any other shoes upstairs? Loafers? Maybe something with Velcro?"

"Yeah, but if they slip on easy, they slip off easy, too."

"Point." Bruce sighed. "All right. Let her go. I've got her." Selina gave him a look, but she released her. Bruce scooped the little girl up and swung her high into the air."

Helena shrieked. Bruce swung her again. On the third swing, she giggled.

"You know," Selina remarked, "she just ate. I'm not sure flinging her about is a good idea."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "She's not screaming. She's not walking on broken glass in her stocking feet. It's a good idea."

"And you'll clean up after her if you're wrong?"

Bruce considered. Then, recognizing the force of her argument, he set Helena on his shoulders, piggyback. "We'll be in the study," he said. "Unless you'd rather I take care of the glass while you watch her?"

Selina shook her head. "No, I can handle the glass. Just… try not to get her too excited. Or too near anything breakable. I'll join you in a bit."

Bruce nodded. He stole a glance at his watch, surprised to see that the entire incident had taken less than five minutes. He was actually going to get to spend a bit of time with his daughter before he had to hit the books!

* * *

Two hours and three quarters of a pizza later, Jim looked at the next page of the study guide.

"You are working with a new partner," he read. "He is senior to you and known as a good cop by just about everyone. You observe a male walking down the street in a residential district. He looks normal to you, except that his clothes are a little ragged and he needs a haircut. While he doesn't look like a homeowner, there are several similar-looking individuals that walk this street. Your partner, who is driving, slows and calls to the male by saying, 'Hey, fellow, what are you doing in this area?' This subject looks over at you but just keeps walking. Your partner makes a U-turn and stops alongside the guy. Both of you exit the police vehicle and begin walking quickly to catch the guy, who just keeps walking in the same direction. As you approach, the subject turns and makes an obscene gesture. Before you can say anything, your partner grabs the subject by the arm, trips him, and slams him face first into the sidewalk. He then cuffs the guy, picks him up by the arm and shoves him against the patrol car until he gets the door open. He then shoves the guy, who is now bleeding from the nose, into the rear seat. You have not had time to really do anything, nor has the subject. Your partner winks at you and says, "Next time he'll think twice before taking a swing at a police officer." Your partner then sits down in the front seat and begins to write a report as he calls for transportation to take the subject to jail." He nodded to Bruce. "What do you do?"

Bruce sighed. "As in every other case, I respect the chain of command. I do nothing to confront or antagonize my partner directly. I do not warn him. I do not give him a chance. Instead I report to his superior. If no action is taken, I go higher." He looked at Jim. "And I realize that, despite the alleged protection offered to whistle-blowers in this situation, I can pretty much take for granted that I will, in fact, face repercussions, should my partner or any of his friends suspect that I was involved."

"That's right," Jim said heavily. "Once you're out in the field, acting on a situation of this nature is not supposed to be—but in all likelihood, it will be—a judgment call. I wish I could tell you differently. But, as far as your answer to the panel, yes, that is protocol."

He returned to his page. "Next one: You have a beat partner whom you really like. He is one of the best cops you know. He looks sharp, does good work, and you'd trust him with your life. You have noticed, however, that every once in a while he smells of alcohol. Finally, one night while on duty, you ask him about the smell. He produces a small flask from his uniformed jacket inside pocket. He states 'this is my one vice in the world. I have a nip now and then. Never more than two in a shift. Trust me, it's no problem.' As far as you know, he's right. He thanks you for mentioning the smell, and says he'll do something about that."

Bruce took a swallow of coffee. "That one… I would try to lodge anonymously. If I noticed that he sometimes smells of alcohol, it would be plausible that others did as well and the facts wouldn't necessarily point to me as the source of the information." He sighed. "I would still need to consider that I would be suspected and take precautions."

"Leave that last bit out of your answer unless pressed," Jim warned. "Here's another one. You have reason to believe that there is a vigilante at large, taking the law into his own hands. You hear from others that this vigilante has never taken a life, is careful, cautious, and able to crack many cases that the police can't. At the same time, he operates outside the law. You would complain, but it seems that he has support at the highest echelons of law enforcement." Bruce noticed that Jim was fighting to keep a straight face. "What do you do?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "If the vigilante in question is associated with the Justice League, the Justice Society, or other such organizations, then I would presume that he has UN sanction to operate. Which would mean that, so long as local law enforcement is requesting his assistance, there is no ethical dilemma. If the vigilante lacks such sanction, well, if the highest echelons of law enforcement are willing to overlook that, then it's essentially managerial fiat and my hands are tied."

Jim chuckled. "Good. Keep that answer in mind in case there's some jerk on the panel who thinks asking you a question like that is going to make you squirm."

* * *

It was a quiet patrol. It seemed that the recent sightings of visiting Capes—everyone from Superman to Looker—had the underworld lying lower than usual.

Batman still found trouble, of course. Vandals, car thieves, petty criminals who usually thought they were safe—relying on the likes of Joker and Two-Face to keep him occupied; lawbreakers who operated in urban parks and narrow side streets where police cruisers seldom ventured. Tonight, their luck ran out.

He'd just foiled his eighth car-theft of the night, when the signal went up. He cast his grapnel and snagged the horizontal flagpole projecting from a nearby hotel. Tonight might turn out to have some excitement, after all!

* * *

He was halfway to GCPD when Oracle called. "Do you want me to spoil the surprise?" she asked.

Although her tone was flippant, Dick heard something more serious under the banter. "Hit me."

"I'm taking our home security to DEFCON 3. Make sure you remember the access codes."

Dick frowned. "Last update was two months ago, right? If so, I got 'em. Now what's going on?"

Barbara sighed. "The other shoe just dropped. You know how, since Bruce's arrest, we've sort of been waiting all this time for someone to target us? Montoya lit the signal to give you a heads-up. It's on."

Dick took a deep breath. "Details?"

"Hush is offering ten million for your head." Barbara sniffed. "Frankly, I think you should be insulted."

"It's only fair," Dick admitted. "I took his hands."

"You're not feeling guilty..."

"No. But you'd better make sure Bruce knows what's going on, too. Last time, Hush tried using me to get to Bruce. I wouldn't put it past him to go for a reversal this time out." He frowned. "It might be helpful to know whether he's just dangling a wad of cash and pointing his beagles in my direction, or whether he's actually planned any of this. The former would be easier, but his usual MO's the latter."

"Yeah. And if he is taking on an active role, you're right: someone probably _will_ try getting to Bruce. As if Bruce doesn't have enough going on right now," Barbara groaned.

"Noted." Batman sighed. "Appreciate the warning, O. I'll be careful. Signing off now. I'm almost at GCPD; may as well find out if that's the only thing they wanted to pass on, or if there's some other intel. But, when I get home we'll review some of the voice-activated defenses." He snickered. "I'd hate to say the wrong code phrase and electrify the floor when I mean to flood the lobby!"

* * *

It was nearly 2AM when Bruce trudged back to the manor. He had rarely been more grateful for his photographic memory, but memorization was only part of the task. It was a double-edged sword: he retained just about everything he read, but he still had to sift through the data, determine what was relevant, and connect it to material that he'd already learned. If he didn't take the time to review, he'd discovered early on that it was something like walking into a library—in which every volume had been flung off the shelves and thrown in a different direction. The information was all there, all accessible, but there was no order to it. Since the tests were timed, he needed to know the material backwards and forwards.

He yawned as he took his coat off and hung it in the vestibule closet. The ground floor was dark. Selina hadn't gone patrolling tonight, which meant that she'd probably turned in by now. Bruce knew that he should probably do the same, but there was one last avenue he wanted to explore before bed…

* * *

The voice on the other end of the phone was silent for a moment. "You know," Clark ventured slowly, "I can put the question to the League, if you'd like me to, but it probably won't be that easy."

Bruce's knuckles whitened on the receiver. "I…" Despite himself, Bruce started as a hand came down on his shoulder and he whirled about reflexively, knowing who he would find when he did. His voice hardened. "You didn't need to get out of bed for this. And if you were going to," he added with a roll of his eyes, "you could at least have gotten dressed first. Does anyone actually still wear a nightcap?"

"Sorry," Clark deadpanned. "I don't cover the fashion beat, so I'm a little behind on the latest trends. By the way, you can hang up the phone now."

"At least you aren't wearing bunny slippers," Bruce replied, complying with a shake of his head, as he took in the baby-blue flannel pajamas and plaid footwear. "This wasn't an emergency."

"It doesn't have to be," Clark replied, looking down for a moment.

"About regaining UN sanction," he continued, a serious note coming into his voice as he raised his head again to meet Bruce's eyes, "you do realize that's not going to help you in Gotham."

Bruce nodded, scowling. Thanks to Jim's police ethics quiz, that fact was uppermost in his mind: if local law enforcement did not request or accept his help, the UN sanction would be as useless as a hundred-dollar bill in a pop machine. "That doesn't matter," he said. "I need to get back to… me. Whether I pass the academy program or not. And," he added, looking down, "it's beginning to look like 'not'."

Clark blinked. "That's… I'm sorry, Bruce. I never thought I'd hear that coming from you."

Bruce shook his head. "You didn't need to come over," he repeated. "Sawyer has me over a barrel. I need to jump through her hoops, if I mean to operate in Gotham, in costume. However, if that doesn't work… would the League…?"

"Hang on," Clark replied, frowning. "I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that you're _asking_ to rejoin the team. Normally, we practically have to beg."

"Don't make it harder than it is, Kent," Bruce said. "I can't give up doing what I… do. I don't want to give up Gotham. But it may be time to explore other possibilities."

Clark didn't answer.

"What?"

The Man of Steel took a deep breath. "Well, first of all, as you're probably aware, something like this would have to be put to all members for a vote."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "You don't think it would go my way."

"I think it might have," Clark said, "if you hadn't decided to accept Commissioner Sawyer's terms."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Clark met Bruce's gaze unflinchingly. "Had you contacted the League first, some members might have voiced reservations about whether you were fit for active duty, but I think, in the end, you would have been back. However, that's not how you did it." He shook his head slowly. "Bruce, think about it. You're trying to qualify as a police officer. I know it's a stepping stone toward getting officially sanctioned. That's not the point. From what you're saying right now? You're turning to the League for membership, when you think you're about to wash out of the academy. In other words," he took a step closer, his expression deadly serious, "you're asking us to accept you as a member of the Justice League when you can't handle regular law enforcement."

"I never went through the police academy," Bruce pointed out. "That hasn't been a problem in the past."

"Right," Clark nodded. "Because until now, we've all assumed—correction: _known_—that you qualified, or that you _would_ qualify, if you were interested in trying for it. We didn't need a piece of paper saying you could do it. We saw you in action."

"And now?"

Clark tugged at his collar. His voice softened. "Bruce. You've been out of the costume for three years. I can imagine some of what you've been through during those three years."

"Don't patronize me, Kent."

Clark shook his head. "I'm not. Bruce, you're not the only one who had to take an..." he coughed. "...an enforced sabbatical." He tugged at his collar again. "Considering that my powers haven't been back for long and we're still not sure that my control is what it used to be, I…" He took a breath. "I'm currently on provisional status, myself," he admitted. Ignoring Bruce's shocked expression, he continued. "The League is changing. There's a greater degree of accountability expected, both internally and externally. I can't honestly call it a bad thing, even if I don't like all of the ramifications." He smiled for a moment, as Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder and then, just as quickly, withdrew it. "Look, it would be one thing if you passed the academy program and then walked away from the department. If you fail—or worse, give up before you start—I don't see any membership vote going in your favor." He looked down. "I'm not sure _I_ could support you in that case, to be honest."

Bruce slowly nodded. "I see."

Clark cleared his throat. "There's one other thing to consider, by the way: basic psychology. Membership requests go to a vote, and all active, reserve, and provisional members get to weigh in. This isn't your fault, but…"

"But?"

"…We've all been interrogated by that backgrounder of yours, and fairly recently. It wasn't just you under the microscope. We knew that was going to happen and we consented, and that's fine. The thing is, If you don't stay the course, you're pretty much saying that we did it for nothing. I'm not sure how, say, Ollie or Hal might view your petition in that case. Don't misunderstand. I'm not saying that it would necessarily be a conscious thing on anyone's part, but…"

"…but their experience might lead certain members to be… predisposed… toward turning me down." Bruce nodded again.

"I could be wrong."

"You could be," Bruce allowed. "But you wouldn't have said anything if you didn't think it possible." He sighed. "Or if you didn't think I should complete the program."

"That's… not really for me to say."

Bruce's lips twitched. "No. But you didn't say. Still, I presume I've correctly deduced your opinion?"

Clark hesitated for a moment before he replied. "Yes."

Bruce nodded again. "Thanks for coming out here."

"You're not angry, I hope…"

Bruce forced himself to smile. "I'm not angry, Kent. I just…" and all at once, he no longer had to force the smile. "I've had so many pep-talks over the last little while. As appreciated as they are," he admitted, "I think what I really needed was a kick to the posterior." _Or two_, he amended mentally, thinking of his earlier conversation with Jim._ "_Thanks for that."

Clark shook his head slowly, but a smile was forming on his own lips. "For that… you _really_ should have called Ollie."

* * *

"Have you been down here all night?" Selina asked.

Bruce jerked upright, startled by the sound of her voice. "Is it morning already?" he asked. He hadn't even heard her come downstairs.

"Yeah… it's almost ten. Helena was scratching on your door—I don't think she's quite got the hang of knocking, yet. I was going to tell her to let you sleep, when I realized you'd left it open a crack and you weren't inside." She took a few steps closer. "What are you doing?"

Bruce gestured to the table, where a Remington Model 870 shotgun lay before him. "I was loading it," he said wearily, "and unloading it. It's… I'm finding it easier than the Beretta. I thought I should practice firing it before I came upstairs, only every time I considered setting up a new target, I decided I needed to practice the loading and unloading again."

Selena moved forward, until she stood directly behind his chair. Her lean arms moved around his neck, the fingers of one hand gently clasping the other just above his heart. She rested her chin gently atop his head.

"I know," Bruce continued. "I'm delaying. Stalling. Not… something I usually do. But when it comes to guns, I…"

"Yeah," Selina murmured.

Bruce leaned back into her. "And I _don't_ need to do this. At least, not now. Jim and I discussed it yesterday; there's no way I can pass gun handling on Monday, and it's foolish to try when there's so much other material to cover. He's right about that. I know he is."

"Okay," Selina said. "And the reason you spent the night down here with Ol' Betsy is…"

Bruce straightened his shoulders. "Because even if my speed and accuracy are beyond unacceptable, I'll be damned if my hands are going to be shaking on that firing range." He sighed. "I know I keep saying I don't want to do this—and it's the truth—but if I have to, then I need to stop whining and get on with it."

"Maybe," Selina said, "but you might want to consider sleeping. Jim called to confirm you're still going over around two?"

Bruce nodded wearily. "More studying." He yawned and stretched. "I guess I should try to get _some _rest in the next four hours." He sighed. "I'll make it up to Helena."

"Oh, I think she'll forgive you," Selina grinned. "This time…"

* * *

"How's it going, Boss-man?"

Startled, Bruce jerked his head upwards, meeting Barbara's gaze as she peered at him from the monitor. He growled and returned to the study guide that Jim had given him.

Barbara sighed. "That well?" she asked, banishing the levity from her voice.

Bruce looked up again. "Police pull over a suspect for reckless driving," he intoned. "When they ask him for his license and registration, they discover that he's been driving with a suspended license. He's arrested on the spot. When the police search his car, they discover cocaine and an unlicensed firearm, _but_," he scowled, "because they failed to obtain a warrant prior to conducting the search, the suspect can only be charged with the driving violations."

"Yeah," Barbara nodded. "Not quite your usual MO, is it?"

Bruce sighed. "If it was just a written test, I'd be less concerned. But you know that in addition to the written component—and, where applicable, a skills test—there's the small matter of the oral examinations." He rolled his eyes. "More panels. All subjective. And," he gritted his teeth, "some of the people who sit on those panels are going to be less concerned with my current grasp of the material than they will be with my—as you phrased it—usual MO." He sighed. "I may have passed the admissions hurdle, but if certain elements don't want me to pass the curriculum, then—"

"Then you'll show 'em what you think of 'em," Barbara cut him off. "Because if you can wrestle Killer Croc to a standstill, you're not going to let a bunch of bureaucrats stop you." Her green eyes bore down on him. "_Are_ you?"

Bruce muttered darkly under his breath and went back to the study guide with a scowl.

"That's the spirit!" she grinned. Her smile dropped. "Seriously? About your past? You _did_ pass that admissions hurdle, past and all, so forget anyone on the panel who tries to put you on the defensive over that. And by 'forget'?" she added, her smile back in full force, "I mean something else that starts with 'f', but just in case Daddy's checking up on you, there are some words he doesn't need to know I know."

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "I'm not sure I did either."

Barbara laughed and closed the connection.

* * *

Derek Powers rang Paxton's doorbell at precisely 5:30 that evening. Paxton opened the door almost immediately and ushered him to the drawing room.

"Where's Thackeray?" Powers asked, surprised that the butler hadn't greeted him at the door.

"I gave him the afternoon off," Paxton replied. "The media has been rather attentive, of late. As much as I trust him, I've seen too many people stab me in the back recently for me to risk his overhearing something that might be," he coughed, "better left out of the media, if you take my meaning."

"I do indeed," Powers nodded. "I presume you asked me here to discuss the gala?"

"In part, Derek, in part," Paxton chuckled. "I've noticed that Wayne prefers to shun the media spotlight. I suppose that," he sniffed, "as a so-called creature of the night, he prefers the shadows. And yet, he's about to make a public appearance," he said, drawing his words out. "At a charity gala, no less. Well, Derek," he smiled benignly, "why don't we give him some publicity? There was kerfuffle outside police headquarters last week, when he had to appear for a panel interview. He gave them the slip then. I can tell you truthfully, Derek, those reporters are sharks. And they've caught the scent of blood in the water. I'd suggest you use that."

A slow smile spread across Derek's lips. "Let them know that Wayne's confirmed attendance at the gala," he said, nodding. "They won't send their society writers to do some puff piece. They'll send out the hounds."

"Exactly. And," he added piously, "when word of this gets out, I wouldn't be surprised in the least if the Foundation sells a few more tickets."

"And it's for such a _good_ cause."

"It is indeed, Derek," Paxton nodded back. "It is indeed."

* * *

The perimeter alarm went off on Sunday morning, while they were at breakfast. "I'll check that," Bruce muttered.

"Probably just a pigeon flying into the security grid," Selina remarked as she absently cut a pancake into eighths and smiled at Helena, who was watching with anticipation.

"Doubtful," Bruce replied, pushing the front section of the newspaper toward her. "Sawyer warned me that once I was passed for the Academy, she was going to issue a short statement confirming it. I wasn't sure when it was going to happen, but," he pointed to the article, "it has." It was front page news, he noted, even if it was below the fold with a mere twelve-point headline.

"Ah." Selina set the pancake pieces onto Helena's plate and set it on the highchair tray. Helena immediately stabbed her plastic-coated fork into one. "I can probably hold them off, if you'd rather beat a hasty retreat."

Bruce hesitated. "Let's just see how serious this is," he said, getting up.

Two minutes later, he was back. "Most of them are at the main entrance," he reported, "but there are a few stationed at the other access points: the cemetery entrance, the beach… I saw one intrepid soul walking along the fence, doubtless hoping for a breach. Or wondering if there's a side road for the Batmobile."

"So, we're surrounded," Selina stated.

"We aren't trapped, though. They don't know about the Cave, nor the tunnel that I really use to leave in the Batmobile." He smiled. "Yes, I checked. However," he added, "I'm not sure it's a good idea to hide from the press at this point." He sighed. "They want a story. I can either give them one now, or I can deal with a throng of them waiting for me on Monday. From what everyone has been telling me—and based on what I've observed personally—my wisest course of action at the Academy would be to attempt to keep a low profile. I won't succeed," he added, rolling his eyes slightly, "but I still shouldn't try to call attention to myself. I can't help thinking that dealing with a crowd like that on Academy property would be somewhat more disruptive. Not to mention conspicuous," he added as an afterthought."

"Good point." Selina reached for a piece of toast. "Maybe you should call Dick. He worked in media relations for over a year. He might have some tips."

Bruce shook his head. "I've dealt with the press before. And one thing that's stood me in good stead, both with them and with other large problems, is the recognition that a task becomes much easier when broken down into manageable chunks." He moved toward the phone.

"Who are you calling?"

Bruce smiled. "Someone who's less likely to twist my words into something I don't mean to say." He dialed a number from memory. _Come on, come on._ Four rings. And then…

"Yeah?" The voice was harried and hurried, but still achingly familiar. They'd had a few good times and he still looked back on them fondly. But for now, he drew his attention to the task at hand and tried to ignore the other members of the press whom he could hear rumbling in the background.

"Hello, Summer."

"B—" she caught herself almost instantly. "Is this who I think it is?"

"I'm ready to give in to the inevitable," Bruce coaxed a bit of good-natured resignation into his voice. "You can have your interview. In fact," he smiled, "if you can meet me where we had our first date, you can have an exclusive. Be there at noon. Come alone," he hesitated, "well, actually, I suppose you can bring along a camera crew, if you must. But make sure you're not followed. If anyone else is there, I'll keep right on driving."

"Got it."

Bruce smiled. "See you there. Oh, I should mention that it's been some time, and I," he chuckled, "I'll probably look a bit different from what you recall. So, to make it easy, I'll be wearing the tie you gave me for Christmas."

"Now, now," Summer chided, "that place has glass walls. You'd better make sure you're wearing more than _just_ a tie." She giggled. "See you at noon."

Bruce hung up the phone and turned to Selina. "Of course, the meeting is strictly business," he said, hoping that Summer's words hadn't been audible to her.

"Of course," Selina grinned. "Relax." She pushed the plate of pancakes toward him. "I'm not jealous. Besides," her smile grew wider, "she's right; you really _shouldn't_ go to the Botanical Gardens wearing only a tie."

* * *

"Do you have adequate lighting?" Bruce asked.

Summer glanced at her team and nodded. "This is fine," she confirmed. "I never knew there was a studio in here."

"Well, the local Garden Network affiliate used to broadcast live from here, before Cataclysm. I'm hoping they'll come back some time, though I've had other matters on my mind, of late."

"Ah, I see." Summer frowned. Bruce sounded affable, polite, as charming as always, but something was different. It took her a moment to realize what was missing: Bruce was alert and engaged, with none of the vague befuddlement that had been so characteristic of him in times past. "So… shall we get started?"

Bruce coughed. "I think I ought to get changed first. And did you bring a makeup artist, or should I take care of that, too?"

Summer laughed merrily. "I was wondering if you were planning on going before the cameras like that," she admitted, indicating his rumpled tweed sports jacket, gray flannel pants adorned with an obvious mustard stain, and battered brown fedora. The blue cashmere tie was clean and pressed, but it was the only part of the ensemble that looked fresh. She wasn't going to mention the seedy mustache and goatee.

"I agreed to an interview, not a media circus," Bruce pointed out. "This was the easiest way to avoid being followed."

"I see. Wait." Summer frowned. "Did you ever… dress like that to duck out on one of our dates?"

"No," Bruce retorted. "I had a somewhat different costume for those occasions."

"Oh?" Summer puzzled for a moment before she realized what he meant. "Oh! No, I was just wondering. Because, trust me. I wouldn't want to have been caught dead with you in that getup. Um… how long will it take you to get presentable?"

Bruce relaxed. "It shouldn't be more than a few minutes—unless you do need me to handle my own makeup."

* * *

"After having spent nearly two years in Arkham," Summer continued, "it must have been quite an adjustment for you when you got out."

Bruce nodded. "It was," he said, hoping his smile looked natural. "But let's remember that for a number of months prior to my release, I'd been granted supervised weekends with my family. That helped to smooth the transition."

"Still, you know that many people question the wisdom of your application to the Gotham City Police Academy. "

Bruce nodded. "Frankly, I'd say it's understandable. It is a big jump. And my previous methods were often at odds with police protocols. I'd like to think that I've gained some perspective over the past few years. The other thing you need to realize is that the GCPD is extremely thorough in evaluating candidates. They wouldn't have passed me if they had any doubts about my stability."

"Still, people can get twitchy where guns are concerned. Once you're through the academy, you'll be carrying one in the line of duty, correct?"

"Yes, that's right," Bruce said. "And I don't blame anyone for being nervous. As you, and," he faced the camera, "many of your watchers know, I lost my parents to a gun. Believe me when I say that using one isn't something I undertake lightly."

"Moving right along, Bruce… As Batman, you've never carried a gun before. Do you think that's going to pose a problem?"

Bruce nodded. "Let's just say that it's one course at the Academy that I don't expect to be able to breeze through. On the other hand, I'm not sure if anybody watching now would be comfortable with the idea of my being simply handed a gun, when I've never used one under field conditions." He hoped Jim was watching _that_!

"You've also been absent from the social scene for ages. Do you foresee that changing?"

Bruce smiled. "Well, actually, Summer…"

Powers frowned as he watched the images on the television screen. Gleason was just one reporter, he knew, and one who had dated Wayne in the past. Of course, she was going to make him look good. "Well, Bruce," he said softly to the set, "I wouldn't rest on my laurels quite yet. There are going to be a lot of people at that gala looking to get a piece of you—if I have to add them to the guest list myself…"


	16. Chapter 15: Knowing What You Know

A/N: Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and PJ for the beta! Thanks to Aiyokusama for combat assistance. Special thanks to PJ for info on cop culture and protocols.

"Havin' A Hunch" written by Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty with additional lyrics by Theodore S. Geisel. From the _Seussical the Musical_ original cast album (Decca 2000).

_You're on your own_

_You know what you know_

_Don't worry about _

_How fast or how slow_

_Be certain you step _

_With caution and tact_

'_Cause life is a great big_

_Balancing act!_

—_Lynn Ahrens, "Havin' A Hunch" (Based on the stylings of Theodore S. Geisel)_

**Chapter 15—Knowing What You Know**

"Welcome to the Academy," the uniformed officer said over the speaker in his booth when Bruce rolled down the window of his BMW coupe at the front gate. The officer's tone was respectful, but his face was expressionless as he stared straight ahead. "Identification?"

Bruce nodded and extracted his driver's license from his wallet and held it up.

"There's a viewer to the left. Move your hand."

Bruce complied with an inner sigh.

There was a moment's pause as the officer ran the data. Then the bar that blocked the road onto the academy grounds swung up. "Follow this road to the parking lot behind the main building. Do not deviate from the main road. Please use the designated student parking. Your escort will be waiting for you there." The instructions were delivered without inflection—or a pause for breath.

Sawyer hadn't mentioned an escort, Bruce thought as he replaced his driver's license. "Thank you," he said.

The officer's expression didn't change, but he did acknowledge Bruce with a nod. "You're welcome, sir," he returned in the same flat tone. "All paths on the premises are under electronic surveillance. Proceed to the designated location."

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes as he started the car again and drove through.

* * *

On the outside, the police academy looked like many of the private boarding schools that dotted the municipal map of Bristol Township. In addition to the main building, there were several others on the grounds. Based on the architecture, Bruce guessed that the oldest one he'd seen thus far—a dormitory, according to his guide—had been built in the 1930s. "Until about fifteen years ago, candidates were expected to sleep on campus, regardless of their proximity to the location," his guide—an officer who had been introduced to him as 'Sgt. Fochs'—said. "Now, it's mostly those from Evanstown and points south—mostly because the first GTARail out of Drescher wouldn't get you here until 0830 and an academy day starts at 0700 sharp."

Bruce blinked. "That's… surprising," he said slowly.

"The early start?" Fochs asked.

"No, not that," Bruce admitted. "I hadn't realized that the commuter trains aren't running that early."

"Remember," the sergeant said, "most people coming in from the suburbs are working downtown—and their workday probably starts around 0830, 0900 or so. We're all the way up north. To get from the south suburbs on public transit, commuters pass through the entire city, then ride the 'Rail through the country for another ten minutes, then wait another seven minutes for a local bus, and then ride that for _another _twenty minutes to get to our front gate. And unlike the train, the bus could run behind if the traffic doesn't cooperate. And should they choose to drive in," Fochs continued, "well, an academy day ends at 1630. Officially, it's 1600, but there are usually physical exercises scheduled last, so by the time you've showered and you're back in your car, you're just in time to get caught in rush hour traffic." He shook his head soberly. "It can sometimes take over two hours just to clear the city limits, and it's not uncommon for traffic to be bumper-to-bumper for a bit beyond that." Fochs tilted his head to one side and smiled. "As you may have deduced by now, I used to live in Drescher, before I bit the bullet and made the move to the city."

Bruce smiled back.

"You ride?"

"Ride?" _Not drive? _Since the officer had met him in the parking lot and knew he had a car, Bruce didn't think Fochs meant public transit. He frowned at what seemed to be a non sequitur. "You mean… horses?" Then he heard something that sounded suspiciously like hoof-beats coming from up ahead.

Maybe it wasn't such a non sequitur.

"Yeah," Fochs nodded. "It's not a requirement, but we do have a mounted division—mostly gets trotted out at parades and ceremonies, nowadays." He grinned. "Um… pun not intended. Anyway, if you do, you might want to mention it to Captain Alanguilan; he's always looking for officers who know their way around a horse. Stables are our next point of interest…" He broke off abruptly. "Side of the road," he ordered. "Now."

Bruce complied. A moment later, a blue-shirted officer mounted on a chestnut gelding cantered toward them.

"Whoa," the officer said, drawing to a stop. "How's it going, Guy?"

Fochs saluted smartly. "Morning, sir. Just giving the cadet the grand tour."

The officer looked Bruce up and down. Bruce gazed back levelly. After a moment, the officer turned back to Fochs. "Carry on, Sergeant." He kicked the horse back into a canter and continued down the path.

"Yes, that was Captain Alanguilan," Fochs remarked. "And yes, my name really is 'Guy Fochs.' My parents thought it was clever." He shook his head ruefully. "Let's proceed to the stables."

* * *

"You're in good shape," Fochs remarked, as they returned to the administration building. "Most new cadets are out of breath by now."

Bruce smiled. He'd guessed that Fochs had deliberately led him back to the building via an uphill route. He had to admit that he wouldn't have been able to keep up the pace had he attempted it shortly after his release from Arkham, but practice paid off.

"Well, that concludes our grand tour. At this point, I just need to walk you over to the registrar's office, you sign a few forms, and…" he shrugged. "…Guess you start testing. So, if you're having any second thoughts, this is your last chance," Fochs said seriously. "You're sure you want to go through with this?"

Bruce nodded, surprised to realize that he meant it. There were more than a few aspects of the program that he had issues with, but if this was his only sanctioned means of getting back in the cowl, then yes, he did want to proceed.

"Right," Fochs said, his friendly demeanor vanishing behind a veneer of stern professionalism. "In that case, I'll escort you to the office and, once you've taken care of the paperwork, we'll head over to supplies to get you fitted for your class A uniforms. You will also be issued a testing schedule and copies of _all_ GCPD policy manuals." The veneer fell away. "I don't envy you. You'll spend this afternoon getting acquainted with your drill instructors. One-on-one," he added, with a shake of his head. "The written tests will commence tomorrow at 0700 sharp. Don't be late," he added. "First, the invigilator won't allow you extra time. Second, if you're more than ten minutes late, it's an automatic zero—hey, watch it!" he barked sharply, as a uniformed officer barreled past, jostling Bruce in the process.

What happened next was pure instinct. Before his conscious mind could process that the other man was sliding a hunting knife out of his jacket, Bruce's body was already turning slightly away from the blade. He grasped his attacker's knife hand at the wrist, twisting it as he aimed a vicious kick at the man's right ankle. Momentum carried his attacker forward into an ungainly belly-flop. Bruce took a quick step forward and squatted, pulling his attacker's wrist out before him and locking the other man's arm against his knee.

The attacker struggled to break free, until a nerve strike made him release the knife with a pained yelp. Bruce picked up the knife wordlessly and presented it to Fochs, hilt first.

Fochs blinked. Then, recovering quickly from his surprise, he took the knife and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Bruce. "Use these," he said. As Bruce complied, he added, "I think I'm beginning to see why the top brass is willing to stretch a few policies to get you onside."

* * *

"What do you mean… 'an incident'?" Sawyer demanded. As she listened to the explanation, she felt her temper rise. "How did he get inside campus? Where did he get that uniform? How was he able to bring a hunting knife—which is emphatically not part of a standard uniform—into the administration building?"

Bad enough that an intruder had managed to infiltrate the academy campus, but do so with a knife that was more than a foot long! MacInnes started to say something, but she cut him off furiously. "You're missing the point here, Travis! Boneheaded or not, this trespasser attacked Wayne in OUR grounds—in a building teeming with cops! Someone WASN'T doing their job and I want to know why!"

Anger and consternation had her firing off questions as soon as they sprang to mind. "How long was he inside? Are you positive Wayne was his target? How about a grudge against cops in general?" Something about the administrator's tone finally got through to her and she took a deep breath. "The press will be all over this once it gets out. I want a detailed report, Travis—submitted to me by 1200 hours today—on _how_ this happened, _who_ messed up, and _what_ your team will do to keep this from happening again!" She took another breath. "After I read that report…" her tone softened slightly, "…we'll talk more." She returned the phone abruptly to its cradle.

Damn it! She'd known that something like this was likely to happen, just as she'd known that Wayne would probably be able to deal with it if it did. It still didn't negate the fact that there had been a security breach on their own turf. Next week, more than thirty new recruits would begin the latest academy program. They had the right to assume that they would be safe on the campus. And, she reminded herself, regardless of whether he actually assumed it or not, so did Wayne.

* * *

Captain MacInnes' eyebrows shot up as he listened to Fochs's report. "That fast?" he repeated when the officer was done, more musing aloud more than asking a question.

Fochs nodded earnestly. "I barely had time to blink before Mister… _Cadet_ Wayne was handing me his knife. I wish I'd had my stopwatch ready; it could have been a new academy record."

MacInnes grunted. "Where's the prisoner, now?"

"We turned him over to security."

"And Wayne?"

"He's waiting outside."

MacInnes grunted again. "Well, bring him in, Fochs," he said irritably. "Let's hear how he's doing."

Fochs got up at once and opened the office door. A moment later, Bruce followed him inside. He was carrying a stack of uniforms under one arm and an academy-issue navy blue baseball cap emblazoned with a round GCPD crest in his other hand. He stopped in front of the desk, and stood waiting, head up, shoulders back, and feet together.

MacInnes regarded him for a moment. "Report."

If Wayne was at all surprised or annoyed by the order, it didn't show. "I was attacked by a lone assailant wielding a fifteen-inch long hunting knife with a ten-and-a-half inch blade. I disarmed and subdued him, holding him until security arrived to take him into custody."

MacInnes nodded curtly. "You're being considered for advanced standing in most courses, cadet. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

MacInnes' eyes narrowed. Wayne had already avoided one of the classic rookie moves: nodding while responding. "There's a module on report writing included in the curriculum. Consider this an extra credit assignment: I want a full written report on this incident, properly filled out and formatted, along with any recommendations you may have to prevent something like this from reoccurring."

"Yes, sir." Wayne frowned. He seemed as though he was about to say something more, but he thought better of it.

"Problem, cadet?"

Wayne hesitated. "May I make a recommendation now?"

MacInnes smiled thinly. "Eager? Go ahead. But I'll still expect to read that detail in your report."

Wayne took a deep breath. "My presence here constitutes an unnecessary risk to all other personnel. The best way to prevent an incident like this from reoccurring would be to remove me from the program."

"Recommendation considered and rejected," MacInnes replied without hesitation. As Wayne opened his mouth to protest, MacInnes held up a hand. "Shut up and listen, cadet. This may come as a surprise, but for some strange reason, peace officers tend to make enemies. We're not always well-thought-of in all quarters. Sometimes, people threaten us, pull deadly weapons on us, even target our families. We take that sort of thing extremely seriously. But we do not throw one of our own to the wolves. Now Sergeant Fochs tells me that you've signed the necessary paperwork and the fact that you're standing here holding your uniforms tells me the same thing. That means that right now, you, Cadet Wayne, are one of our own. I may not like having to put together an accelerated testing schedule for you, and I may not be one of your biggest supporters, but that doesn't change the fact that, unless you wash out of here—which might very well happen, but until it does—you are one of ours. Save the heroic sacrifices for field duty."

He waved a hand. "Get out of here. You have 25 minutes to get into uniform and out on parade grounds. Let's see if you're as fast with that as you are with disarming a hostile. I look forward to your report by 0700 tomorrow." He reached for a stack of paperwork. "You're dismissed, cadet."

He had his own report to write, though he was damned if he knew what kind of recommendations he could make in under four hours. He'd been half-hoping that Wayne would have a suggestion off the bat; one that Sawyer would endorse. He gave a mental sigh. Of course, Wayne's advice had crossed his mind, but removing him from the program wouldn't address the real issue: someone had managed to breach their security. Sawyer had been right about that: if it could happen once, it could happen again. MacInnes knit his eyebrows together. Well, he'd come up with something short-term and hope it satisfied her. He doubted it would, but it wasn't as though she was giving him much time to come up with options. He was curious to read Wayne's report. From all accounts, this sort of thing ought to be right up his alley. And if Wayne came up with something tomorrow, then who gave a damn if it wouldn't be in the report he was going to submit to Sawyer today? He still needed it!

* * *

"We found Fuller in the guard booth, tied up, gagged, and unconscious," the sergeant reported. "Paramedics were called. I think they're still on campus."

MacInnes nodded curtly. He'd already found out that much. "Sergeant," he began, "I…"

"Will someone tell me what's going on?" A hoarse voice demanded from behind the locked door. "Hey!"

MacInnes frowned at the second officer standing guard outside. "How long has he been like that?" he asked.

The officer shook his head. "You're not going to like this," he said.

"I _already _don't like it," MacInnes retorted. "But I asked you a question."

The officer snapped to attention. "Captain, the prisoner continued to resist while being escorted to lockup. In his struggles, he succeeded in dislodging his cap."

"His cap," MacInnes repeated, feeling sick, as he realized why the officer was making mention of it. "You mean…"

"As soon as the prisoner was bareheaded," the guard nodded, "his behavior changed dramatically. He appeared to have no idea where he was or why he was under guard. I've sent the cap to the lab for analysis, sir, but I _have _seen this sort of thing before."

MacInnes let out a heavy sigh. "As have I, sergeant. Better get used to seeing it more often." He shook his head. "As long as Wayne is on-site, it's a safe assumption that the Mad Hatter will try this again. And he probably won't be the only costumed kook to come out of the woodwork."

* * *

"Slacking off already, cadet?" the drill sergeant barked. "Come on, Batman. You can give me another forty!"

Bruce kept his face impassive as he performed his one hundred sixty-first push-up. He hadn't broken a sweat yet, which only seemed to irritate the man standing over him. At first, he'd considered holding back, but then thought better of it. He didn't have to pretend to be out of shape anymore, and he'd only find himself facing more drill work if they thought he wasn't up to par.

After he'd completed the set, the drill sergeant eyed him as though he were a particularly stubborn stain on a uniform. "One hundred ab crunches!" he snapped. "Five sets of twenty; let's GO, cadet!"

With a mental sigh, Bruce rolled onto his back, bent his knees, and placed his hands behind his head. _One…_

* * *

Driving back to the manor some four hours later, Bruce was planning on a long soak in a hot bath. The shower he'd taken at the academy had refreshed him, but in a few hours, he knew, the effects of the callisthenics, sprinting, distance running, and obstacle course would begin to tell on him.

It wasn't exactly as though the drill sergeant had demanded of Bruce any more than he normally demanded of himself. However, there was a qualitative difference between exerting yourself to meet goals that you had set for yourself, and exerting yourself to meet goals imposed by another party.

He'd done two hundred push-ups before he'd realized that Drill Sgt. Craigie hadn't had a predetermined number of repetitions in mind for each exercise. Rather, his aim had been to push Bruce right to the edge—stopping just shy of driving him over into sports injury territory. Going by the relief he'd felt just to lean back in the driver's seat when he'd finally gotten back to his car, he suspected that this aim had been accomplished. He reminded himself that he'd endured worse, summoned a basic meditation technique to suppress his fatigue and the first faint signs of muscle stiffness, and concentrated on the road.

Despite himself, Bruce's lips twitched. When this stint with the GCPD was over, it might be worthwhile to see if Craigie was interested in becoming his personal trainer.

He turned on the radio and his nascent smile died.

"The PMWE building was evacuated nearly an hour ago, when police received an anonymous tip that there was an explosive device on the premises. An emergency response team is on the scene…"

* * *

Dick was sitting at his desk when Sal Fiorini stepped into his work area.

"Something's come up and I need you to come by the security office, if you have a minute."

Dick's eyebrows shot up. Risk management did involve safety of a kind, but his duties rarely overlapped with those of the head of building security. "Now?"

"Right now." There was something about Sal's expression that told Dick that it wasn't a casual request. He locked his paperwork in his desk and followed him up two flights of stairs.

"Hope you don't mind the exercise," Fiorini said. "But if I ever got trapped in an elevator, I wouldn't live it down, and it's only two floors anyway."

Dick grinned. "Suits me fine," he said as Fiorini pulled open the stairwell door. He waited until they were in the security office, before he asked, "Okay. What's going on?"

Fiorini's expression turned deadly serious. "Five minutes ago, the police informed me that there may be a bomb on the premises. At least, someone phoned them to report it. I'm thirty seconds away from ordering a general evacuation, but it occurred to me that you might be better equipped to handle something like this."

Dick frowned. "But the police are on their way, right?"

"Eventually." Sal shook his head with a long-suffering sigh. "They have to investigate, of course. But then, the tipster claimed the bomb was going off in six hours, didn't give any further details, and this _is _Gotham. SOP is to get everyone out of the building and wait for the bomb squad to give the all-clear. But it might be well over an hour before they get here." He reached for the intercom and froze with his hand on the toggle switch. "I'm giving the order, but if you think you can handle things, you don't need to abide by it."

Dick nodded. "Bomb defusing is part of my skill-set," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "But it would help if I could get a little more information. Did you want my cell phone number to call once you're outside?"

Fiorini picked turned on the intercom and calmly directed all personnel to leave the building immediately via the emergency exits. Then he turned back to Dick. "I'll need to stick around until the floor wardens confirm everyone's out. As long as I'm here, what do you need?"

"To figure out how anyone could have brought in an explosive without getting stopped by security," Dick replied. "All bags are checked at the front desk. Access by any other door is by keycard only—so it's either an in-house job, a hoax, or someone tailgated. But how they got in, assuming it's not a hoax, isn't the main issue. Someone would have to set up the bomb and place it where it could do some damage, but where it wouldn't be spotted early. Mr. Fiorini…"

"Call me Sal."

"Sal... you know as well as I do that if there's one thing PMWE has always taken seriously, it's been building security. Besides a bunch of other measures, we have cameras _everywhere_. The first thing I need to know is if there are any places where they aren't. If not..." He sighed. "If not, I'm going to need to get back to my office. I have some equipment I keep around in case I'm working late and don't have time to get home before..."

"...Starting your other job," Sal nodded. "What kind of equipment?"

Dick shrugged. "Pretty much what the bomb squad is going to be carrying. Unfortunately, not every explosive device is the size of a stereo amp with colored wires and a countdown clock." His expression took on a seriousness that belied the lightness of his tone. "The guy who firebombed those warehouses on the riverfront and blew up Arkham? He did it with cell phones. Our device might be lying out there in plain view, or it could be locked up in someone's desk drawer. To find it, I'm going to need the right tools."

* * *

"It was in the mailroom," Dick announced some forty-five minutes later. "Looks like it was set up more to scare than do any real damage; it's a stink bomb. A nasty one, but I've disabled it."

"Good work," Sal's voice came through over the cell phone. "The bomb squad's just pulling up. Better let them see if there's anything left to find."

Dick looked again at the note that had been taped to the canister of malodorant: _Next time, we won't call first. It won't just be putrescine. Keep PMWE vigilante-free. This is your only warning._ "I'm pretty sure this one isn't a decoy," he said in a more subdued tone. "But sure, let them have a look."

"Is everything all right?"

Dick hesitated. "You know that other job I've got? From the look of it, someone out there doesn't like me moonlighting. There's a note—"

The security chief cut him off. "Give it to the police when they arrive. Wayne Enterprises doesn't give in to terrorism. We never have and we never will."

"I can't endanger everyone else," Dick protested, even as it registered that Sal Fiorini had just referred to the company by its original name. "Look, there's no reason why I can't telecommute."

"Sure there is," Fiorini shot back. "There are a lot of reasons. One: we don't give in to terrorism. Two: if we made an exception in this case, somehow I don't think that you continuing to work for the company, offsite or on, will satisfy their demands. Three: we're not setting up a precedent of throwing anyone to the wolves just because someone out there disagrees with a hiring decision. Four: tell me that, when you found that bomb, you weren't already figuring out how to prevent any further suspicious parcels from getting in."

Dick let out a breath that sounded almost like a chuckle. "I… might have had an idea or two."

"Good. That's something we should meet to discuss. Are you free tonight?"

"Tonight?" Dick repeated. "I've got that other job."

"What time do you clock off?"

"Um… that… that depends." He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "I don't really have set hours."

There was a pause. "If you finish before two," Fiorini said finally, "call me. I'll have my ringer on until then. Otherwise, I'll expect you in my office at seven tomorrow morning. When we're done, if you want to go home and sleep, go right ahead, but I'm not comfortable leaving a security breach unplugged for any length of time. Clear?"

Dick looked at the note again and heard once more the mocking voice that still haunted his nightmares. _You won't be able to shake someone's hand without marking them for death… How do you like being alone, Dick?_ Then his fist closed around the sheet of paper, crumpling it in his hand—the hand that Blockbuster had told him he'd never be able to shake again. That was then. This was now. He wasn't alone. He didn't have to isolate himself to protect the people he cared about. He was about to throw the note into the shred bin, when he remembered that the police would need it for evidence. "Clear," he repeated. "See you outside."

Then he turned and walked out of the mailroom, doing his best to smooth the page with his gloved hands as he did.

* * *

Bruce was waiting for him when he pulled his car into the cave. He barely waited for Dick to get out of the car, before he demanded…

"Are you all right?" Dick asked at the same time. "I heard—"

"—about the knife attack..."

"—about the bomb scare," Bruce's eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about that? I hardly think it would have been on the news."

Dick shrugged. "Your captain talked to Sawyer. Sawyer talked to her computer. Her computer talked to Babs." A glimmer of a smile flickered across his face. "Sawyer's probably just keeping it on file as CYA in case you got hurt and you—or we—tried to sue them for recklessly endangering you." He waited for Bruce to meet his eyes. "Not meaning to fuss or anything, but you _are_ okay, right?"

Bruce smiled. "Better than. I wasn't even scratched. How about you?"

Dick shrugged again. "I'm standing here, talking to you." His expression turned serious. "Babs told you to be on your guard, right?"

"Yes." Bruce frowned. "I did suggest to the captain that my presence might needlessly endanger the other cadets."

"Great minds," Dick grinned. "I made a similar argument to Sal Fiorini, earlier, once it became clear that the bomb scare was directed at me. Your captain buy it?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, but he appears to be putting the responsibility for resolving the issue on my shoulders. I need to submit a report with my recommendations tomorrow." He made a face. "Or maybe he's trying to ensure I won't have as much time to prepare for the written tests tomorrow. He made it fairly clear that he doesn't approve of my arrangement with Sawyer."

Dick nodded. "I'd be surprised if he did. Remember: cops generally go by the book for some very good reasons; including making sure that the DA's case doesn't get thrown out because of incorrectly gathered evidence. And," he added, "making sure that civilians aren't hurt in the crossfire because someone wanted to play hero." He held up a placating hand as Bruce started to bristle. "Hey. We both know that's not how we do things… and you've done a pretty good job of teaching me not to believe all the hype. But c'mon. They see 'former JLA member' and they think 'hero.'" His face fell. "They think 'going by the book' and they don't think you."

Bruce nodded glumly. "Sawyer's attempts to smooth the road for me could be taken as an illustration of your point. They're likely to backfire."

"Yeah," Dick nodded. "Expect resentment. Mind you, there is a way to counter it, but you'll hate that too."

"Forget the advanced standing and just enroll in the regular courses like everyone else?" Bruce shook his head. "I can live with the resentment. I don't need to be liked. I just need to get through this." He raised his eyebrows. "What happened with Fiorini?"

Dick thought for a moment. "Apparently, the same thing that happened with your captain. Looks like I'm going to be looking at ways to shore up security at WE—and by the way, that was Sal's choice of abbreviation, not mine."

Bruce lifted his head. "Do you think that's significant?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Dick said with a slight frown. "Sal's been with the company for almost twenty years. It could have slipped out. But it could also mean that he'd back you if you wanted to start becoming more active. Want me to sound him out in the morning?"

"No. Don't rock the boat yet," Bruce said firmly. "Mind you, if he asks what my plans are…" Bruce hesitated. "Don't share too much. If Sal turns out to support Paxton's camp… or whoever's camp it is, now that Paxton appears to be on his way out, I'd rather we hadn't discussed everything with him. Use your judgment."

Dick nodded. "Did you want me to help you cram tonight?"

"No," Bruce sighed. "I have to write that report. And then," he shook his head, "the examinations start at seven. I should know the material well enough. I'm just going to take the practice tests in the policy manuals, and as long as I get better than a bare pass, I'm not going to worry."

"Good luck."

* * *

Bruce arrived at the academy at half-past six, with the report in his hand. On the surface, it wasn't particularly different from the reports that he'd filed in the past. In fact, he'd had to revise it several times. Over the years, he'd developed his own style of shorthand. He also was wont to include speculation, hypotheses, and extrapolations—none of which had any bearing in a standard police report.

At first it had thrown him for a loop, as MacInnes had specifically asked for his recommendations—which seemed to demand that he speculate, hypothesize, and extrapolate. In the end, he'd drawn up the report as shown in the policy manual, keeping to the bare facts, but including the recommendations as an appendix.

After taking the three practice tests for the examinations that he was writing today, he'd managed to get nearly four hours of sleep. There had been a time when that would have been more than sufficient, but he'd needed three cups of coffee at breakfast. Probably, he thought with grim humor, it wasn't the late nights, but the early mornings that he found problematic.

It didn't bother him that—apart from his driving test—he hadn't had to take a written examination since he'd left school at fourteen. Instead, he focused on remembering the chain of command, and accepting that—for the first time in a long time—he was at the very bottom of it.

It helped if he pretended that he was undercover…

"Morning, Cadet," MacInnes greeted him. "How are you today?"

Bruce smiled. "Good, sir, thank you. I have the report you requested," he added, holding it out. Never mind that it had taken a hot bath, another of Selina's massages, and some advanced meditation to compensate for what Craigie had put him through yesterday. He wasn't about to complain.

MacInnes frowned. "Cadet Wayne," he said with evident displeasure, "when an individual inquires after your health, it's only polite to respond in kind."

Bruce blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I asked you how you were. You failed to reciprocate." He shook his head. "Do you not care about the well-being of the people with whom you interact on a daily basis?"

Had he somehow missed a unit on _greetings_ in all of those policy manuals? He couldn't believe that MacInnes was making such an issue out this. He had to be trying to provoke him. Bruce suppressed his irritation. "How are you this morning, sir?" he asked blandly.

MacInnes eyed Bruce as though he was trying to determine whether he was being mocked. "Well, thank you, cadet," he said finally. "Sergeant Fochs should be waiting outside to escort you to the examination room. You're dismissed."

Bruce wheeled smartly on his heel. Clearly, that conversation had been some sort of contest. The problem was, Bruce wasn't sure who'd won.

* * *

Sal let out a low whistle as he scanned the file on Dick's USB stick. "I thought I knew a lot about security," he remarked, "but you've got a couple of tricks here that never would have occurred to me."

Dick turned his face away in embarrassment. "Those aren't the only things we can do that we aren't already doing," he said, "but it seems to strike the best compromise between keeping the site secure and letting people do their jobs without feeling like they're in a prison." He smothered a yawn.

"Coffee?" Sal offered.

Dick shook his head. "I had some before I came in."

"Rough night?"

Dick shrugged. "Actually, it was relatively quiet."

"Relative to what?"

Dick's lips twitched. "Well, we didn't get hit by an earthquake. Nobody broke out of Arkham. Nobody decided to use Gotham as their test lab for the latest bio-weapon, and the sun didn't go nova. It was quiet."

Sal laughed at that. "Sorry. I guess I'm just… torn between idle curiosity and the realization that maybe I don't want all the details."

"You don't," Dick smiled back. "Seriously. Was there anything else?"

Sal studied his screen for a moment. "This detection and deterrent system," he said. "It looks like we have most of the components around already. Question for you: do you have the expertise to assemble something like this?" he stabbed the screen with his finger.

Dick walked around Sal's desk so that he could see the display. "Sure. It's a little tricky to get the initial template set up, but then it's just a question of not making typos in the coding." He grinned. "On the other hand, there's a lot of coding involved."

Sal nodded. "I can see that. But it's something you know how to do?"

Dick nodded back. "Bruce taught me years ago."

"Bruce?" Sal's eyebrow shot up. "That's good to know."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," Sal said. "Go home. Get some sleep. But come and see me tomorrow before you clock in."

* * *

"So, you'll be home in about a half-hour?" Barbara asked. "Have you eaten yet?"

Dick thought. "Does an energy bar count?"

"Do peanut butter pancakes sound better?"

He didn't have to think about that one. "I love you. But make it an hour. I have a stop to make first."

* * *

He didn't usually go out in costume in broad daylight, but he suspected that once he finally lay down, he might sleep the day _and_ night away. Of course, there was no rule that said he _had _to confront his quarry within the next 24 hours. Still, it didn't do to let Hush think that matters could be left to lie. At this point, it was pure psychological warfare. Hush wasn't going to back down—not from one visit, anyway. However, if Dick could plant a small seed of trepidation in his adversary's heart now, it might well bear fruit down the road. _And if I were one of the bad guys_, he added mentally, _I'd probably want to insert an evil chuckle right about now…_

He had his own way to get into Blackgate. Years ago, some convict had tried to tunnel to freedom, aiming to break through to an underwater cave and make it through to the mainland with some smuggled-in scuba gear. He'd miscalculated and hit solid rock.

Bruce had later detected the tunnel and, figuring that most of the work was already done, burrowed up from the underwater cave until he broke through to the passage. Then he'd installed a hatch with an electronic lock, camouflaging it so that, on the off chance anyone inside the prison stumbled upon the earlier convict's work the hatch would be indistinguishable from the rest of the tunnel floor.

Dick made sure that the Harbor Patrol was out of the area before he took the Batsub into the cave. He knew the guards' routines by now, as well as the blind spots on every security camera. It wasn't long until he was inside the prison and ensconced in a shadowy corner, safe from prying eyes. At this hour, Hush would almost certainly be in one of the workshops or in the yard. "O?" he spoke into his comm-link. "Are you in?"

"What kept you?" Barbara sounded amused. "They oughta be ashamed of how easy it was to hack their grid."

"Or maybe you're just that good."

"Flatterer."

"Every chance I get." His tone turned serious. "Okay, where's Hush?"

"Hang on," Barbara said. "A visual search will take too long. If I can just get a look at his work assignment… bingo!"

Dick waited. A minute went by. Two… Five…

"O?" he asked finally. "Everything okay on your end?"

There was another pause—this one lasting only a few seconds. "I've just been reviewing the footage. He was there in the morning. Security tapes show him heading down to breakfast. Then… nothing."

He knew what she was telling him, but some part of him still wanted to hear her say it. "Nothing?" he repeated.

"I don't show him ever making it to the mess hall. Or anywhere else in the prison afterwards. If you're asking me… I think he's out."


End file.
